Indian Summer

We've got the summer fallow done
the wheat is in the bin.
and now we're waiting for the snow,
to come and shut us in.
To cover up the shivering fields
beneath its blanket bright,
and let the blizzard howl and rage
across the lonely night.

Above the naked stubble fields,
the brier berries glow,
the stacks of feed are snug and tight,
like soldiers in a row.
the barns are staunch against the cold,
we've battened up the eaves
the pigeons in the fragrant loft
are cooing in the sheaves.

The birds are leaving every day,
we hear them talk and scold,
and warn each other to get out,
before it gets too cold.
There's ice upon the water trough,
the grass is dead and dry,
and northern lights are showing up,
against the evening sky.

A bit of Indian Summer time,
beneath a golden sun,
a time of lovely gracious rest,
from all the work we've done.
A kind of brooding in the air,
and echo faint and thin,
the wind is whispering for the snow,
to come and tuck us in.