Slowing to a tar and gravel stop
on a crumbling farm to market road
built to transport autumn's crop
truck by bulging truckful's load.
With trip- weary legs I disembark.

Four days ago this field held corn.
Three days ago steel picker came;
then it rained on the next morn.
This stubbly field is not the same
as last time I came here to park.

Sun peers above the far side wood
making prisms of the weeds and such
left where tall cornstalks once stood.
Old knees ache, but not too much.
I hear the last fall meadow lark.

My field edge scout for tracks begins,
heart shaped slots of bucks and does,
as deer season grows near once again
and fall's potent pollen fills my nose
making me sneeze, almost bark.

I trudge and limp around the field
seeing random tracks and one lone crow,
perhaps perusing this crop's yield.
He squawks at me, once, far down below.
Or maybe at a streaking snark.

Suddenly a flock of doves, unseen
bursts from stubble to the dappled sky
then, as one, they southward lean,
tip their wings and wave goodbye.
On southward journey they embark.

I shield faded eyes against the sun
then watch 'till I see them no more.
Their year's migration at last begun
just as it always has before
heading toward the tropic's ark.

But as I stand I give thought of
all those who used to scout with me
and how mortality's firm shove
took them to where I cannot see,
where souls go when they're set free.
One day I'll share their mystery.