| November (November 19, 2003) I saw a score of fowl fly south today, In formation like fighter jets would be, A �V� of birds against a gray white sky Scrambled into action by the freezing Air that settled for the past two evenings, On a mission to retreat to warmer Climes. Meanwhile, in fields that once held thriving Rows of corn, the butts of stalks poke skyward, Looking like bones left out in the weather, Undiscovered for decades after some Massacre. I drove on, moving farther West, passing a dozen massive forearms Disguised as apple trees, thrust straight upward From the ground, fingers long and splayed, reaching Desperately, as though the final grabs Of men consumed by quicksand, nearly gone. |