The noise of the multitude of birds,
brings my mind to long forgotten memories.
Black Grackles they were,
noisy in their multitudes.
I walk in a cold, crisp afternoon,
brown leaves crunching under my feet.
My dad is by my side,
we are hunting for birds,
but not the Grackle.
The air is crisp and clean
and we walk quietly,
but for the crunch under our feet.
No doves this time
and then the sound of traffic,
wakes me from my reverie.
The birds are not Grackles
and leaves have not yet fallen,
but are multicolored on the trees.
My dad is no longer with me,
but the chill of Autumn is in the air.