chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: October

found poem: politics

found poem: tie-dyed

found poem: artisan

found poem: October

found poem: The expressive

found poem: And in October

found poem: something

the season…

sky traffic…

crows by Tom MerrimanWhere were the crows going when I saw them? Late afternoon, perhaps a hundred or more, spread out across the equivalent of four or five blocks, ragtag, quiet, flying north. Perhaps they roost in the county, blackening de-leafed cottonwoods with their numbers, a birds-eye view over shorn fields and gray highways offering fare more delectable for plumping feathers against the season’s chill. Perhaps they discuss their plans for winter vacations, share stories of annoying eagles, recount tales of raccoons and guns. And maybe their conversations are semantic, parsing the bad taste of eating crow, as the crow flies, crow’s feet or the very wrongness of crowds and crowns and crowbars.
photo by Tom Merriman and much fascinating crow lore by Kate St. John


Pouring rain, the greens darkened to nearly black, the sky an undifferentiated thickness of gray. The newspaper remains on the front walk curled into its rubber-banded plastic bag. Newly painted, the siding is somber, lifted directly from the palette of rain. The coffee pot ticks as it cools. The rain sounds like an industrial fan as it drenches the roof. Leaves drip, droop, drop. Autumn.


fogYesterday, they were out there, the two of them in their 80s, hunched over the plants that line the south side of their house. His plaid wool shirt a little too big now. Her scarf tied snug under her chin.

They pluck the last of the tomatoes, some still green, some wanly reddish, a few fully ripe, and when the plants are bare of fruit, he shovels them up, tosses them in the wheelbarrow, wheels them off somewhere. And she, bending deep from the waist, scoops soil back into the holes, digging and patting with her wrinkled fingers, repairing the bed for next year’s planting.

Today they’re gone, their house is gone, the trees, the grass, the carefully tended beds, the street between us, gone, in thick, enveloping fog.

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