Slim Pickings
A waning moon hangs
under an obsidian sky
as I walk through a
the dark scrub forest
past stumps of giants
felled long ago.
The river‘s low
few salmon in the pools
and none flounder
on the gravel banks.
Eagles and ravens
are not to be seen
though the signs say
bears have been
sighted.
Once this river sustained
an autumn feast but
now pickings
are pretty
slim.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
