Cranes Again

Sandhill cranes again
as every autumn ever
float over our fields.
Exiles, always calling
their lost and lonely plaint.

Drifting, always searching
a place to rest, a scattering
of grain not gathered in.
Gleaning, always mourning,
like us, the coming chill.

Shadows of autumn
gliding, all too briefly,
over our land and gone.
We're left to mourn alone
the chilling, biting winds.
Image by ladymacbeth — Pixabay

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