A Foreshadowing

He sees dark rubicond berries that burst through the orange-yellow leaves; leaves that fall in little dry flurries, when they rustle through the early eve'. He feels the sun, views it like a golden rose, watches it sink its light through the trees, alight the wings of the song sparrows, and paint a gleam on the house's eaves. He will know the tree as it stands stripped, its limbs still reaching for the Harvest Sky, as the farmer stands beneath, all betwixt, of bared fields, of Winter's chaste light. November 16th, 2020