The death of leaves
Partridge, quail, pheasant, duck, deer
Fills air's aroma,
Air's waves with staccato shots
And summer's demise.
No more Aspen's faint applause
Like distant rushing rivers.
The vines shrivel in empty remorse
For frost's ruthless rally
And beneath the clouds of heaven's arch
Squawks protest this cold outrage
As I shuffle along a road
Whose black gust were once jungle
Millenia ago.
The once verdant ditches are dying back
Revealing the scat of myriad road dragons
Which have come growling by, volcanoing clouds
Of hot putrid gasses,
The litter of lost chances at wealth's cheating promise
And silver cans, now empty of their advertised spontaneous joy
Lying like strange melons that refuse to rot.