A Drift of Khaki

Ellen Hopkins

With a nod of weary limbs,

the Russian olive sheds its bitter

berries. They pour, unyielding hail,

puddle in tall grass,

obstacles for mower blades

and unshod feet. 

In the garden, corn

has withered into mannequins,

and silver nights have claimed

beans, pumpkins and melons.

Autumn hangs,

a corpse, in shriveled vines. 

A solitary starling seeks

fodder in the graveyard,

scratches desolation,

where only weeks before

abundance dwelled, ripe

in folding season. 

On the footpath border

between lawn and cabbage bed,

an olive has rolled

into the open, hinting

at the larder, concealed

by Kentucky blue grass. 

The bird investigates,

finds sufficient treasure.

One call and the flock

gathers on the high wire,

descends like a copper

feathered fog.  

As they fill hunger-worried

bellies, the Russian olive

shudders, flurries

khaki leaves into October wind.

They drift around the flock,