A few years ago, December was very warm and it rained so much that the rivers in creeks were constantly going out of their banks, jeopardizing many of the wildlife inhabitants and forcing them to find higher ground accommodations. This December has been warmer but so far, not wetter.
The new moon hangs full for the twelfth time this year.
The birds twit frantically as when spring draws near.
The children in rain coats and big black galoshes
thread through the puddles that dot the long lane,
not fickle at all by December’s rain.
The yellow bus sputters and coughs and begins
loaded with kids wearing rain coats and grins.
The radio blares out its news through the static,
reporting the detail and facts of the game,
not interested at the moment in December’s rain.
But the fields of corn that parallel the road
that should be covered with snow are wet, not cold.
And the fox and their families and the deer in the woods
seek out refuge in a place not the same
lost and bewildered by December’s rain.
The creek that divides the corn and beans, that
is usually a trickle, is gone, it seems.
The landscape that’s usually so rich and so green
is now very blue, looking lonely and plain
scourged by the waters of December’s rain.
The summer, it seems, has some wintry-like days
that brings out the wintry type coats.
And the fall’s not as long as it was years ago
according to many old folks.
And also, they say, spring’s been acting insane
coming and going without reason.
And still others figure that SOMEONE above has
changed the rules of the seasons.