The Hawks in the Leaves

The silly chickens huddle in dismay.
Each shadow cast by falling leaves they take
to be a hawk descending on its prey.
They’re scared, while I’m just resting on my rake.
Today’s the stripping day, when in a blink
our postcard fall receives its fatal blow.
Some blame the southwest wind. I’d like to think
the leaves themselves know when to go.

And so the hens and I believe there’s more
to this world than meets the casual eye. A whiff
of wood smoke and the closing of a door;
I don’t know all that’s happening here—as if
a child’s still hiding in that pile of leaves,
or something’s perched up there, along the eaves.

—Robert W. Crawford

Next
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE

Give the National Endowment for the Arts Back to the Public

Michael Astrue

For decades, Americans have become increasingly alienated from the American arts establishment. The main source for their…

Jane Austen Against the Smartphone

John Byron Kuhner

On this day in 1813, England’s most beloved novel was published. Pride and Prejudice has become the…

Unseen Skies

John Wilson

If you have been following this column for a while, you know I love the very idea…