What Feeds the Cold

Barren fields of November Corn stalks ragged broken soldiers bleak beauty stripped of green Beige bones on autumn's carpet Margins of daylight that disappear blending frost to the pinched ground Corrosive wind like a wet slide of mourning seamlessly folded into what the landscape feels Crows circle in their swoops of survival seeking the scarce sweet zones of lost kernels Momentum to snatch scraps, bits of decay in field rows that crack like smiles Under a moody sky, gravestone gray sparked by the cawing of crows that scrubs us clean in the exit wounds of autumn.