Change is coming, it's already here
in the leaves that turn golden
and then brown and then let go.
In the birds in the sky that flee,
an inky scratch scribbled in blue.
And in the crisp air, no longer gentle.
The leaves lie all over the ground
in piles of damp decay
and by the smudge on the horizon
there's more rain to come.
A deer blends with the tall grass,
shades of golden and brown.
Crows have found it,
one sits on the shoulder,
black against gold.
The neccesary desecration of everything.