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This is hardly the first day
that I have scaled this lofty perch
just as the stars go on their way
the sky turning gray beyond the birch.
My breath turning to a dense mist.

Settling in the tall pine tree
in a field grown wild with plums
thick briers and honeysuckle vines
in sight of tall autumn sweet gums
near where a swamp and shoreline kissed.

Behind me the sun clears eastern trees
spotlighting all things to the west
in a tableau that's destined to freeze
making me feel that I've been blessed
to see such things which most dismissed.

The sweet gum's leaves glow scarlet red
as intense as ever seen
when they're usually pale gold instead
once they've lost their summer's green
with a slight frost's small assist.

Some ducks dive to the beaver pond,
later some wild geese fly by high
seeking some place far beyond
as they trumpet through an azure sky
in V's which seem ti shift and list.

Yet eyes keep seeing scarlet leaves
as well as a fox in search of prey
with twitching nose to scent the breeze
within which a red hawk greets the day
'till I realize my vigil's finished.

I descend then at last I decide
to see why gum trees are not gold
then haltingly I reach their side
and their store appears plain and bold.
Their bark was too sweet to resist.

Thus beavers had girdled each gum tree
and they'll all be dead before too long
in a sweet sad tale seen just by me.
The brilliant red is their swan song.
Will My final song hold such beauty?

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


In your inimitable style, once again you have painted a vivid picture of Autumn Moods in this poem which flows so very easily. I could relate to it even more being presently in Canada where for the first time I saw a few Beaver Dams too and learned a bit about Beaver habitats..


raj (sublime_ocean)

Thank you. Good thing you're not in Canada during deep winter. You don't have to worry about the Windigo now lol............stan

author comment

only scribbler can conjure this , this is excellent poetry impeccable, plaudits my friend

Guess I need to put an ice pack on my head now to keep it from swelling lol. Thanks for dropping by.........stan

author comment

You likely did not intend it, but it feels full of sadness to me.

I think "destine(d)" is a typo.
in a tableau that's destines to freeze

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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The protagonist is engaged in a solitary endeavor so I guess it could well be described as lonely. Deer hunting is one of the few sports in which a person is not being cheered or at least accompanied by others and as such is a stern test of ethics since what happens in the woods pretty much stays in the woods. And thanks for the typo spot.........stan

author comment
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