by Thomas J Camp
Light Gray smoke hangs as a mist in the cold still air.
The sweet smell of hickory can be found there.
A harem of hens follows closely and pecks thru the brush
A cackle or cluck, a scratch at the ground
Is the only noise above the sound of a Thrush.
The rooster moves carefully and leads the whole pack
Warm sunbeams Caress as they search for a snack.
The leaves have all fallen, the hens rustle thru
There are still a few worms betwixt soil and dew.
They don’t wander far, they know all the trails.
They march steadily to the field and behind the hay bales.
The hound doesn't care, he stirs not an inch
As he surveys his domain and could bark at a pinch
At any stranger he hears, if they were at all around.
The frost has set in overnight on the field,
But it does not matter, no crops there to yield.
To market they went, right after the Harvest moon
And spring time means planting again, but not soon.
For now we lay back and be thankful at best
For the potatoes and jams have all filled the food chest.
The knock of a woodpecker echoes high and afar,
The cardinals All have scarlet browns on this winter, so far.
I am sure somewhere in the world there is something to do
But for now I do not care to learn anything new.
I pick up an axe and stroll o’er to the forest edge
Then Lay a fresh log on a stump, like a wedge
My cautious blows timed precisely to ring
With the stillness that hangs patiently within
And echoes through the silence found there.
Last updated April 23, 2015