The dirt is pale beneath my callused feet
and the air stale within my tightening chest
as the trees drop their darkening leaves
upon my stuffy, unbalanced head.

Crunch...swish.
Crunch...swish.

The Crow screeches his familiar, menacing cackle
and yanks at his rusting shackles – metal slices
holding the world below within his grasp,
keeping his rubber ball within reach of black talons.

Crunch...swish.
Crunch...swish.

Night skies walk the ‘rubber ball’ as a black fox
stalking the noisy children as if they were
scurrying mice, squeaking, running for home
beneath a fall moon fleshed out by terror attacks.

Crunch...

One a year, there is a violent ‘Caw’, followed
by the fading of shuffling padded paws -
the biting, bitter cold wind begins his approach,
wailing forcefully in his generous warning.

Crow and Night disappear; he relinquishes
the shackles to their sister, the Blue Princess.
She then waves a barren stick; like magic attracts
like, dead winter branches create dead winter branches.