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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. 


Daisy said…
Lovely poem, Brenda. I've never heard the mourning dove called a rain crow before. That's new to me. Beautiful colors in that fall tree photo too!
magnoliasntea said…
How interesting! I love the poem. I didn't know farmers used to listen to the call of the mourning dove in expectation of rain. We have a rich history in the Appalachians. Have a great week!
lil red hen said…
I think, here in the Ozark foothills, we still take note of the tree frog's songs, sun dogs, and the rain crow. I don't have, or use, a cell phone.
Beautiful poem, Brenda. I had no idea the mourning doves coos predicted rain!
Even my grandfather planted his garden according to the signs of nature. Brenda, that is a beautiful poem!
Even my grandfather planted his garden according to the signs of nature. Brenda, that is a beautiful poem!
janet smart said…
Oh, I love your poem,Brenda. I learned something new today.
Blackberry Lane said…
Lovely poem. Don't you love Autumn?
Beautiful dove...
And your poetry...super!!!
Susie Swanson said…
Oh I love this one so much. Yes, we've always called them the Rain Crow. Old timers always said it's gonna rain when they heard it.

Thank you so much for the beautiful card and tell your mother thanks for me. It was so nice of you and means alot.
TexWisGirl said…
i think we've lost a lot of nature's cues generation to generation. rather sad.
NCmountainwoman said…
Lovely poem. Guess it's regional, but in the mountains here the cuckoo rather than the mourning dove is the rain crow. I've heard them in our woods but never seen one.
Brenda, It's nice to meet you here in blog land. Thank you for stopping by my blog. I appreciate your kind and encouraging words! Lovely poetry~ Blessings, Cindy
Connie Arnold said…
Thank you for sharing the lovely and interesting poem!

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The Blue Ridge Mountains
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ancient; carved from granite;
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Cornfields sway like ripples
in the honeysuckle wind,
Queen Anne's lace spins
doilies on the banks

welcoming me to the old homeplace.
Granddaddy's old grey barn
painted with a Lone Star quilt,
a raincrow performs the coda
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The gravel road forks,
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over moss-covered rocks.
A footbridge shimmies,

Great-Granddaddy Dallas Matheson's
log cabin sheltered at the foot
of Shewbird Mountain;
I savor the sweet memories.
                   --Brenda Kay Ledford

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Her story is about her nephew who served two tours of duty in Iraq.  She had a dream that angels were protecting him and wrote a story about her vision.  It was included in both the magazine and anthology. 

The Lord did in fact protect John and he got home to America. He was called to preach and is now attending divinity school.

God does great things!

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