Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Evening of the Rain Crow
I heard the rain crow cooing
in the distance this evening,
as the sun sank crimson
and honking geese formed a wedge
behind the Shewbird Mountain.
He perches in barren oak
whose crisp leaves rustle golden
and brown to the frozen ground below.
I hear his shrill caw
resounding still through
chilled October quiet,
and know that by night
silver droplets will begin.
--Brenda Kay Ledford
This poem first appeared in Appalachian Heritage Magazine.
During the early 1900's, farmers in the Blue Ridge Mountains had no radios, televisions, iPhones, computers, no modern technology, to listen to the weather forecast. They depended upon the signs of nature including the rain crow or mourning dove cooing to predict rain.
In the gap of Shewbird Mountain, I revisit the old home place. Perhaps it is the taste of churned buttermilk, the smell of cornbread b...
Wood smoke spiraling like India ink from a log cabin flips back a page from the past. Grandma Minnie bowed over a quilting ...
I love the bright colors of fall and the cool air. Yesterday I grabbed my camera and rambled around my yard taking photos. I discovered ...
The Blue Ridge Mountains unfurl royal blue ribbons, ancient; carved from granite; patchwork farms dot the cove. Cornfields sway like ...