Daniel Larson | + Follow Poet |
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The Season

There's a bird on the wire
     overlooking fields of grain;
He's been here once before
     but it didn't look the same.
The flowers are wilted,
     there's no seeds upon the ground;
Even though the breeze blew
     he could hear no sound.

Somewhere from the distance
     came a noise that he once knew,
'Twas the sound of the dogs
     as a group of pheasants flew.
Then he heard canons roar,
     watched the first of the birds fall;
Heard commands from the men,
     sounding like the southern drawl.

Gathered up their trophies
     as they arrive at this end;
Turned around, spreading out,
     and then started back again.
Seemed to be a routine,
     to him their plans seemed so clear;
He only knew they'd leave
     when there were no more birds here.

So now he had to move
     for to find himself a meal,
Might be somewhere near by
     with a few seeds he can steal.
The day was growing dark,
     less and less he sang his song;
His heart sank as snow fell,
     this season was to be long.

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