The sunlight in the dew is dying.
The darkness through the air is flying.
The early birds their worms are freeing
and swiftly to their nests are fleeing.

A strobe of white the barnyard lights,
a brief reprieve from black-as-night.
The spider to her web is clinging
as the dinner bell starts ringing.

The pots upon the porch are shaking.
My heart within my chest is quaking.
The sycamores and elms are stooping,
the puddles in the gutter grouping.

Stones of ice the leaves are plucking.
The old black mare out back is bucking.
The walls of air the trees dismember,
and shingles on the roof surrender.

The nails in the house are straining.
The fury’s laugh my soul is staining.