death to the smily face


This time of the year
this far north
crows swell the air
on the cusp of dawn &
lacerate the remainder of
night with their cawing.
They splatter white shit over
the sidewalks & parked cars
& usher in the
dim light of day.


Tomato plants wither &
turn black &
people draw into themselves.


Lush thoughts of
summer give way to
ice-crusted apprehensions–
frozen water pipes,
getting the wood in,
black ice on the highway.


It takes an excess of
endorphins or the
carte-blanche courage of
youth to override the
true message of fall.

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