MUSINGS OF A WESTERN NEW YORKER IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

How I miss the crisp, golden smell of Fall
Pheasants half-clucking, half-honking their silly call
in back of the house.
The haze of leaf fires hanging in the air
are comforting fuzzy for annual thumb suckers.
Occasional boom of shotguns, fired not in hatred.
A wide-eyed child anticipation
of bringing home a trophy for the little woman.
The little woman creating a masterpiece
out of cold, dead fowl, stale bread, bitter cranberries
and dirt encrusted potatoes.
A sharp crunch of thick green grass underfoot,
starched and glazed the night before.
By now the moles and woodchucks have retired,
leaving the birds to forage alone.
We would build a fire and smile,
once more in wonder of the coming freeze.

Peter Deuel, November 1963