Geese floating across the
Like someone cracking a whip on high.
A small herd of bucking colt's hooves fly,
Frolicking, gambling, tells me fall is nigh.
A white hawk lifts away from a fence post,
Carried by winds and lifted like a ghost.
Bales of hay are marching in rows as if to boast,
We laugh at winter and her freezing host.
Come we now to a valley where green so green is the wheat,
Not colors for spring but for winter's growing not to defeat,
A harvest next year for pastries, bread, crust so sweet.
For today, the feast is in our eye's seeing this, so complete.