November is Imminent

and the birds are freaked out.
they think "how did we forget to fly this year?"
well, they were busy swirling in the current of passing boats;
they were chugging beer on the concrete banks of modern rivers;
they were talking too loud to hear that the time had changed,
that grey clouds now meant cold
instead of just rain.

the birds are freaked out
and so are the worms.
they are burrowing deep
in the harvest brown soil.
they cling to the hope that one day soon
the birds will shape up
and remember to fly south.