Perhaps It Is November

In a field, crows pick at remains

of smashed pumpkins. Nothing will scare them.

Geese fly south. At sunset, fly north

again, never leaving. Winter isn’t winter anymore.

These days, none of trust our instincts.

Vincent van Gogh - Wheat Field with Crows

Vincent van Gogh – Wheat Field with Crows (1890)

 

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