That gentle feel of twilight
coming on a field day
is softly made right by the approaching way
the dusk approaches
When you know all is well,
feel strong walking rhythm in your being and soul
enlightenment reigns o'er the valleys down below
O, days of glorious harvest!
O, remembrance of the time!
those who journey farthest forever seek their prime...
Fields of green turn'd gold, in abundance they did grow
now as they dry and ripen they reassure the soul
the whispers of the fieldmice,
the stark, cracked cawwing crows
the smell of burning leaves
slow autumn takes its toll
An old man on the backporch softly sings
"It's harvest time, it's harvest time, harvest time, again..."
whisperwords dovetail with the current
this moonlit November night