The End of Summer

The meadow lies ravaged beneath the scorching sun, fields covered with dust, grasses yellow and flat, sunflowers hang their heads. Only dandelions survive releasing seed into the air. Few birds chirp, singing sad songs, Spiders move slowly weaving their webs. Insects undeterred abound. Ants carry their meager harvest to their underground caves. The breeze too cold, the skies occasionally grey. No farmer tills the land, afraid of sweat and backaches. No tractor sputters to life no tools lie around, Only a sickle is stuck upright in the fallow land.