Fall

Walking on my own these days. Well, not really on my own. If it wasn't for the big boy, I wouldn't be walking half as much. But with a sick husband, no chat means noticing my environment more acutely.
Not sure this counts as poetry? If there is such a thing as impressionistic poetry, then maybe that's what it is. Warning: I'm no good at counting syllables, or rhyming. 

Fall

That's the fruit of something 

Disgusting 

Hum

Crunch

Flex

Distant bark

Flying

Singing 

Smoke

Sweet

Can't put my finger on it

Ears cocked

Wild chirping 

Communicating

They talk to each other, you know 

Wing Overhead

Plop Plop Plop

Are you ready? Are you ready?

If you did this every day, you’d become very good

Black dog

Purple tshirts

Interest perked

The smell of hops

Or is it barley?

Brown tunic

Sophisticated smell

Haze over the aerials

Mist

Yellow

They’re everywhere

Woof Woof

Runners

I hate them

Red tshirt

Thank you

Heel

Gorgeous

Two mottled

Well done everyone

Red

Four Seasons

Hot Hot Hot

Before that

The girls

I can hear them too

Neil

Chicken

Home

And before, forgot

Smell of laundry