Cold and slate shadows permeate
reaching even golden
grasses and turning them to soft gray.
The scanning eyes can see
a canvas bag with shredded strap
thrown against the base of the oak,
once hidden by leaves of brambled vines
but now abandoned
except for some faint memory,
of summer's busier days.
Abandoned now by all
except opportunistic and curious crows
through the net of the flap.