The north wind blew a single leaf,
Dried like a golden harvest sheaf,
Across my driveway’s cool hard sheet,
Near where the grass and concrete meet.
I heard its scuttle’s scratchy call
Before I saw that beetle crawl.
It was as though a finger nail
Across a chalkboard scraped a trail.
I shuddered as I heard the sound;
I shivered as the wind blew ‘round.
I knew within my still warm heart
That both were signs of Winter’s start.
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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.
The Bard on the Hill 