For the dverse prompt.
Each gust tears a little more of the scenery,
plucking dry orange-peel leaves, one by one
from windy branches, sending them fluttering
like small brown birds.
There were orioles in the trees once,
now robins lord it about the woodpile,
bramble patch shrinks where persistent donkeys graze
And the fox rambles after dark,
and the owls drift in the night,
here and there,
like ships lost at sea.
Morning comes, sometimes misty,
sometimes frosts crunch a bit more of the summer
and we forget how green was green.
Sky rolls in a kaleidoscope of cloudy colours,
where the moon drifts in the daytime,
and the sun wraps itself in pale veils.
No moment is the same as the one before,
no bird flash of wings or fluted call.
Just blink and the little red deer is gone.