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The wind whistled a chilly tune,
As the day slipped toward a grey horizon.
Flocks of blackbirds darkened the autumn sky.
The quail's shrill call could be heard in the forests,
As the workers put their plowshares away.
The distinctive odor of burning leaves
Floated in the breeze that struggled to live, 
And people could be heard coming in from the fields.
Workers and animals weary from the day of toil,
Eager to find solace in the warmth of home,
Be it a cabin, shack, house, mansion, or stable,
To be fed and bedded was the desire of all.
It seemed that the fall pricked the sense of existence
More than the other seasons of the year.
Prompted answers to questions if all had been done
To weather the blink and dark of winter.
All that could be gathered was in the barns,
And all that had been neglected was stored in regret.
Now winter must be faced with bold resolve,
With a prayer that survival would witness springs new hope.
The farm communities of old have long gone by
Where family and neighbor worked and played together,
Sharing the triumphs and defeats of agrarian struggles,
Working with their hands and wearying their backs,
In an effort to support and advance living off the land.
Through life was slow and perseverance strained,
The genius of that day has been lost to prevailing winds,
Never to be known again or valued as wholesomeness.
But those who came from those days of yore,
Gained more than most modern folk will ever know.
That was a time in yesteryear.

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