Raindrops run in charcoal tears
down panes of summer´s dust—
an autumnal shower, just what´s needed—
those last swells on parched dirt
to quench its thirst before bedding down.
Crows gather in rows of black fingernails
scratch the surface of the sidewalk
flap their cause deeper in the dark
then mount the empty treetops and caw away…
until season´s cycle calls them back.
A time of reflection in a sepia world
as anxiously awaited as sleep to insomniacs
required respite for roots, bones, old boots
a time to wash away minor trespasses
to realize and react to our immortality.