Whippoorwill calls from the laurel and oaks,
    a sound like a distant, wailing train.
    Chatter is scattered among the folks
    of the coming of fall and the winter rain.

    Brown brush and autumn leaves tossing ‘round,
    willows now weeping their golden tears;
    days growing shorter without a sound
    fade as they fold into backwoods years.

    Apple-crisp air smacks me like a kiss
    tingling as amber wheat thoughts unwind.
    Change may be pain blended into bliss -
    depends on perspective and state of mind.
 

  Anne Bryant-Hamon
  Originally written:   9-19-97 ©
  Edited  October 12, 2000 ©