eager wind pursues
the huddled ones listening
to the scythe’s rattle
the beating rain and
rumble of the angry clouds
makes the timber wince
anticipating
the October Country guests
…this is their season
As it’s October, I’m dipping in and out of this fabulous collection of Ray Bradbury short stories. He died this year of course, but his body of work speaks for itself. The blurb for the book evocatively captures the essence of it:
“…where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnight stays. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country where people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty paths sound like rain…”
My little Haiku conglomerate is my humble tribute to him.
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