Written by: Bruce Schuhart

I heard a call from the orchard deep,
On an evening perambulation.
In keeping with the air of autumn sleep
It pulled taut my imagination.
It came to me through barren trees
And was so soft I doubted my hearing.
I walked on remains of this year’s leaves
Never having an accurate bearing.
When I came to where I had last heard it
I am sure I was where I should have been,
But standing alone as though I deserved it,
The call never came back to me again.