parallel lines
running
toward a distant treeline,
a smattering of heads
stippling the rows,
bobbing this way
and that,
crunching swishing trampling
through crisped leaves
that crumble
into ash.
brittle hollow stalks
pop when stomped

with a noise like
a drop
hitting water
in a bucket.
the snip of clippers,
the thump of
tossed squash
beds leveled,
gourds mounding,
piles rising.

humans
racing the sun
to the end of the day,
its exit
beneath the horizon
pulling the frost
in its wake.

~Hailey