The Magic of October Skies

The title is a mishmash of Van Morrison lyrics from the song Moondance. It also touches on the prompt about magic. Knowing OctPoWriMo was coming up I tried to get a couple poems ready ahead of time. On the first day of fall, it was a perfect Autumn day. A few mad scribblings at breaks pumped this out.

Waiting for the bus is so cold.

I shuffle my feet and feel old.

The leaves I stir go wild.

Soon I'm kicking piles like a child.

The wind gleefully joins the game,

Making mini-tornadoes in my name.

It barrels into a golden tree top.

Leaves explode in a slo-mo firework pop.

A cold wind knife twists and shoves.

For the first time I need gloves.

The air has smells I can almost taste.

What's next--pumpkin spice toothpaste?

The opaque sky spins its silver web.

The sun is a cocoon in its cottony bed.

Misty rain settles on what is still green.

Sparkles spring into a diamond sheen.

The breeze peels back the sky's comfy quilt.

Sun rays pour through and yawning light is spilt.

The noon sun is hot enough to burn my hair.

I wish I was on a beach somewhere.

My comfy coat is a sauna now.

I remove my gloves to wipe my brow.

I strip own to just my uniform shirt.

My shoes cook my feet that start to hurt.

The lemon setting sun makes the sky buttery.

Its a light bulb seen through chamomile tea.

I arrive home to the dying light.

Stuffy windows open to the cool night.

I trudge to my cold bed wondering on the way,

'How can all four seasons dance through just one day?' 

This Poem is for the Birds.

(Intro: Writing is sometimes about observation. After dropping my wife off, I had an hour to kill before work. I drove to a little park nearby that I occasionally park at, sit in my car and eat my bagged lunch. I noticed some birds. For the whole time, I studied and sketched them. Not being a bird watcher, I had no idea what they were. Perhaps, someone in the know may be able to identify them for me.)

This Poem is for the Birds

I.

An hour before nine on a crisp prairie autumn morning,

walking in the trim dewy grass, they came.

A flock smaller than a robin, bigger than a finch invaded the park.

Politely they hopped and pecked for breakfast in the turf.

Red and yellow golden leaves danced in the tutu of morning fog.

Thin dark beaks sewed a woodpecker's tattoo silently into the lawn.

When they stopped their energetic hunt to swallow their bounty,

some displayed dark moustached circles beside their bills.

Between neck and chest they wore a black insignia patch.

Like military rank some were bars, chevrons, and some just a smile.

Against the chill was a red or scarlet square scarf upon the nape.

Their brown or dark beige shawl sported tiger stripes.

Black tipped tan wings wore a checked twill tweed design.

Their under shirt faded from tan to white bedecked with dots.

Suddenly they took to flight flashing white under tails like deer.

II. 

The swooping prairie gulls bullied their way in 

flapping grey letterman's wings at the nerd birds.

Blunted beaks like an old boxer's nose

harshly blared a stringent call like a ship in the fog.

Proud barrel chests aggressively pushed their own for a scrap.

Bandy flat footed legs gave them an old salt's drunken rolling gait.

Yet, when they flew it was arrow straight and no nonsense.