The forest is carpeted with October. The ochre, red, and gold hold an old dog firm as he limps through the dry crackling. Horse tails swat at the last of the flies, and the geese pond hop across the county. Snow, sleet, and ice loom; sheets of white stripping the earth, blanketing the conifers. Until then, I sketch the corpse of a red-winged blackbird. By spring, it will be taken by the ground, given to the worms, who feed the rest of the red wings; songwriters of the winter sun. — WILL KEEVER
Will Keever is a Brooklyn-based poet originally from the leather stocking region of New York State and currently attends Johns Hopkins University for an MS in Science Writing. Will likes to take walks in the park and pet good dogs, whom he refers to as earth angels. Find out more at www.wdkeever.com.