Two Crows . . . North America.

Here's an Autumn verse from the Picture/Poem stream called Leaves:

TWO CROWS As the summer fades behind you, late one morning you look up from your work, and the sound of the leaves is suddenly drier, higher in pitch, and your thoughts naturally turn from arcane theory to the facts and practice of shelter and the coming cold. Far away in the mountains it is already snowing, and a deep and uneasy quiet descends upon all the passes heading South.        Did they cross safely          to the other side? The crows know that this is when the pulse and flow of rivers ease, and the orchestra of strings stops,

now listening, to tune and tune again, sensing the hushed sway of trunks in the spruce forests of the far North.          How broad and slowly the          waves of wind pass through          the crowns of tall trees. A hoketus of shrill cries marks the crows' departure, as an empty branch bobs nervously about;          arched back, a quick trill          of the paws, and          the gray squirrel has          stashed another piece    of gold.

(Photograph was made Monday, the 19th of November, 2001)