Autumn sings a plaintive song.
I hear it in the russet leaves
which cling fast to their withered stems
when whipped hard ‘gainst glass panes and eaves.
It’s in the whistle of the wind,
the doleful trill of Nature’s flute
played wistfully across the roofs,
‘tween limbs of trees, a treble toot.
Perched on the bird bath’s frosty rim
a mourning dove calls to its mate—
one melancholy haunting note.
For its return I wait and wait.
Other birds these Autumn days
have ceased their songs, chirp rarely now.
They know that Winter’s wrath comes soon;
Innately they’re aware somehow.
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