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The Crow Rider
The crow rider came through the fog on an October eve.
We watched him appear on a dark crow with a weave.
Kibitzing could happen now I whispered as I took my leave.
Terrified of this Halloween sight, that oozed out a grieve.
There was a scythe, a hatchet, an axe and a sheave.
The crow rider held steady, I gasped out a heave.
Is this really October? Asked my friend, Little Cheeve.
It surely must be, I said. I am not feeling a reprieve.
Copyright ©
Caren Krutsinger
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