Kicking acorns as they run,
three barefoot boys in the woods;
the dawn gilded with the sun,
stretching shadows like the hoods
of Fae watchers between trees,
the Autumn leaves laid beneath
and, through the glade, the cold breeze
whispers of late Summer’s grief,
yet the children laugh and play
without worries from the wind;
before them lay a long day
and they cannot see its end.
The Winter waits like a hawk,
its talons sharp with its frets,
gripping youths until they squawk
and men aching with regrets.
But rousing by slow degrees,
the Winter remains aloof
and a boy never quite sees,
observing too late the truth
when Winter’s beak pecks between
his ribs with keen hunger pangs,
its wings outspread, and the sheen
of icicled overhangs.
No more barefooted dog-days
when the raptor reigns supreme,
hunting boys in bitter days—
Summer but a distant dream.