Contributor Posts

When the greatest Pumpkin Sun,
Lights up the cold October sky,
where will all the birds go?
Migratory birds, will be on their way
to a warmer clime, in the South while
other, small birds here will just stay.

It hung by a stem
to the bare branch above.
It was the last leaf
on the bare limb
of the tree.
Surprising, for we had,
wind gusts and much rain.
The leaves in the Summer,
were a lovely shade of green.
When fall arrived, it was cold
and the night temperatures dropped.
We witness the change, in colors,
bright yellow, red in the leaves
before they fall to the ground.
Yet, here is a lonely leaf,
the last of its kind of this tree,
and a barren branch,
awaiting to fly.

The winds blew the coldness
off the waters of Puget Sound.
"Twas early in the morning then.
The fishing boats with nets abound,
a chilling fog had settled on
my favorite spot, on Puget Sound

The Sun
in the morning,
pushes the fog
back to the clouds,
which ride slightly
above the ground.

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Photo courtesy of Calob Photography

The mountains puncture the sky,
snagging clouds as they pass.
The green-yellow of decidious trees,
changing colors before the
leaves fall to the ground.
A most wonderous time of the year,
when a trees skeletal remains,
rattle the brain and senses.
An old, natural disaster;
no flowers except the Aster.

The closing days of Summer,
rapidly pass,
perhaps it will rain
and put green into my grass.

The roar of the wind,
through the top of trees,
can be entertaining, as
the tops will twirl and sway.

The Heron
stood motionless
in the ponds
brackish water.
Patiently awaiting
for the careless frog
or curious fish.
This prehistoric bird,
is what it must be,
still in this World.
It won't go away,
from the smell of the water
and it's brackish display
of decaying vegetation,
it smells every day.

Clouds so thick; a marshmellow sky.
A marine push, we were told
which would bring, freshets of rain.
A light mist, which soon it fell,
brought little relief to the parched land,
dry to the hands touch.
The grass crunched as I walked
and plants were, tinder box dry.

I have heard
the migratory call,
at early Dawn;
at twilight time,
as flocks of
Canadian Geese,
perform their ritual .
A precursor of what
will soon become,
as the geese sweep
the sky, telling us
of what is to come;
we have returned.

It flows
over rock,
gravelly sand,
down hillsides,
it's grand.
Cut through
dark loam,
going to
eternal home,
the Sea.