Throng of Mornings, poetry by Ken Allan Dronsfield at Spillwords.com

Throng of Mornings

Throng of Mornings

written by: Ken Allan Dronsfield

@KenKadfield

 

The belltower could be seen through undulating mists.

Black skies now give way to a gray, bird-filled morning.

Starlings fly in great flocks; first east, then west, finally south.

They gather numbers for a great migration to warm climates.

I watched as leaves of the oak suddenly fell, as if too tired to

hold on for one minute more. Acorns drop from high branches

hitting leaves on the way down sounding like hail during a freak

summer storm tap, tap, tapping upon an old tile roof.

A lone Canada goose is spotted flying high; either this year’s

gosling or one who lost its mate during the long summer.

A noise startles me; the bus stops there at the crossroad.

I step up looking to the field and a small deer stares at me;

I stare back; we didn’t move and neither of us blinked.

Then the bus driver said, c’mon lad; another day begins.

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