a poem in my pocket

Most farmers in northwest Iowa have finished harvesting. Corn and soybean crops are combined and stored in elevators or bins, waiting for favorable prices. The garden produce has been eaten or preserved for winter. Plentiful pumpkins gathered up to sell at local stands and markets. Some orange orbs are carved into fierce or friendly faces, holding lit candles to flicker from porches.

The sun sets earlier now, as Harvest Moon is followed by Hunter Moon. Perhaps the native Lakota would have called it Falling Leaves Moon. They are still falling…red sumac, flaming maples, golden cottonwood blanket lawns, deep green underneath from generous autumn rains. Children rake leaves repeatedly into great piles, then run and jump, scattering crunchy debris with delight.

Pheasant season opens; eager hunters gather in the chill air, some accompanied by dogs in training. They patiently walk waterways and groves to flush out the birds, grown plump on corn. Whir of wings and sharp pop of gun, dog fetches dead bird, still warm. Someone will dress and cook their prize tonight. Pheasants raised for hunting keep population flush.

eyes glow in the dark

wandering possum or coon?

roadkill by morning

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Frank Tassone hosts haibun Monday at dVerse where we’re howling at the Hunter Moon 🙂