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

On Getting Old

John Wilson

Two years plus a couple of weeks ago, I wrote a column that began thus: “I am…

Dostoevsky’s Credo

Gary Saul Morson

What does it mean to believe something? Is it possible for a person to profess an idea…

Large Language Poetry

Nikolas Prassas

In my ideal undergraduate course in literary criticism, the first semester would include a brisk introduction to…