The Thief

The fists of the summer sun
unclenched and I stole
the autumn weather.
Like a free spender
I traded the gold days
for colored woods
and ripe grapes.
Wild mallards
swarmed from their Arctic nests
along the sky’s rivers
but I waved them back.
A foolish crow
with a thin bone of moon
stuck in his throat
coughed a warning.
Old Carrion, Old Evil,
I said and lay on my back laughing
until late one afternoon
the sky’s militia
rose in their hooded shapes
and sighted me.