where silvered waters softly flow,
the maples flame against the reeds
and bullfrogs leap and hide in weeds.
Those listening will hear the call
of ravens serenading fall
amidst the darkling pines they soar
to croak an ancient tale of yore.
The bones of fallen fighters lean
with living trees to form a screen
and whisper stories of the wind
that stole their footing, left them pinned.
Do not regret the dryad’s plight
for days will pass and change to night;
though like them too, we soon are felled,
an essence freed may not be quelled.
© 2022 Nancy Sobanik
Image Source: Northern Lights by Tom Thompson