November turns the fields to cold mud

corvids usually pick through the wet grass

their eyes sharp enough to cut

their cries so raucous as to wake the dead

today no unkindnesses nor murders are to be found in the yard

and the gray of clouds has seeped into our dreams

sending us to do desperate things for color

paint a picture of our wildest hopes

dance down the street to strut and wail and beat

amidst the chaos we needs gather more than ever

find our people, set a table, join hands together

give thanks to farmers, now let us eat