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Any autumn Wednesday


An autumn tableau. Image provided by the author.


By Tim Askins


I was born where autumn cool meets summer’s heat

on the equal night, the last boy of summer.

The gardens withered, tomatoes picked,

corn in its can, figs made to jam.

Hen’s eggs ready to balance on end.

Fall when the gray birds fly.

When the boys of autumn take to the field,

their long boots on, scatter guns loaded

and dogs at the ready.

Pity the critters not prepared

to take their last breath.

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