Mill Town at Sunset, Mid-November
So many damn crows
stoking up the wind —
fragments of a soul
long lost from God.
Hills in the distance
beginning to glow.
A smokestack or two
among the steeples
and the heavy, silent bells.
Old brick mills
stand cheek to jowl along the river,
their ancient looms still whirring,
weaving bolts of golden cloth.
Their windows go on blazing
till the sun has shrunk from view.