Nine balloons drift, silent,
through quiet yellow air
in the eastern sky.
Field grasses
turn gold overnight.
The trees are holding out
for just a little more Summer –
never let it end, they say,
clinging long to the green
though it is beginning to look
threadbare and worn.
Daily they lose the battle for youth,
curling yellow and crisp around the edges.
In the sky
ravens gather,
clouds of croaking black,
slip-streaming four, seven, nine –
hurling insults at earthbound mortals
trudging below.
Winged taunts.
Settle,
says the soft west breeze –
warm breath, scented with
Summer-just-gone –
settle in.