Harvest Time

A few dry leaves whisper

Over the newly shaved landscape

The busy scurrying of tractors

Has taken its noise to a distant field.

I rejoice in the view they have left

From a wall of green

To a vista of lake and mountains

The breezes flow unfettered now,

Cooling in the heat of drought.

My cat, however, is most put out:

Where are the stalks of cane,

my friends, the prey I love to haunt?

Alas, poor cat, your wit and skill

must sharpen for the kill

Until the phalanx

of green topped canes arise

to rustle once more outside our gate.

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