Orange leaves are falling on my head; at least the green ones stayed where they belonged.
The hummingbirds have hidden somewhere for the past few weeks; metamorphosed into eagles circling high above.
The deer grow horns and eat the grapes before they’ve turned to wine, and drunken from the harvest turn to rut.
And fox, he smiles and laughs as watching where the subways being built by moles and voles maps menus for his winter meals.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology