41 North

In the north country the fall comes early
And through the barren trees
We see clear through to the next county.

A hawk holds himself steady
High in the blowing wind.
The wheat is felled across the hills.
The fallen leaves have blown into the low areas
And are sodden from the storm.

From the farmhouse at the height of the land
We look down across the rolling country
Dirt earthen brown, darkened for winter.

The light will fail early today
And still earlier tomorrow,
As we,
With all the land
Go on waiting,
Waiting around to die.

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