The Curse of November

So the October sky let loose its stores in drip and drop as nature restores the wilted and silted back to life. A rainbow here, a rainbow there. All signs of good fortune in time. The Shuramuroves* flock in distant sky, criss-crossing in their flap of honor. Seers cast bones to the harvest of March, some say it will be too little some too much, but the bushes are cleared, Readied for what the farmer bestows. Sheep bleat to the mounds of chaffs, cattles goaded for the till as children pleasure in rain dances. Some catch ishwa for relish, some make mud houses in endeavor to turn around wishes. Like fallen heroes buried to rise no more, no seed underneath jingle with the bells of Christmas. All hopes washed away by October storm. Not even dew will save the bushes. Skeletal trees hang, so void of foliage. The blue sky ushers down the sun’s heat to lick up our hopes in storms of dust in relive of the gust of August. Some say the breeze from the west got us into this mess. Some say the gods are longing for an apology for the granted wish of that fateful November night.