By Lawrence Hall

Word Count: 124

Rating: G

Summary: A poem of the triumph of the season of Advent over winter.

A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world
Lowering the horizon to itself,
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer.

The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky.

Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds.

Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.