No sound beyond the dropping of the leaves
Or shushing in the treetops of the stirring
In the air and periodic whirring
Soft of wings and bundling of sheaves ––
Every now and then a bird may call
Looking for –– or longing for –– his mate;
Escaping still the hunter’s dinner plate.
Scythes swish steadily as grain grown tall
Submits to delicate compelling force.
Workers silently bent to their task
Over whom hot sunshine spills its rays
Reap swiftly knowing pain could come, of course.
Later, in the afterglow they’ll bask
Dreaming –– foolishly –– of better days.