When Saturday Comes

Still September, no wind of change or winding down, or taking leaves to the years end. Across the blue a slim silver bullet drifts, silent and deadly, aware of its destiny; a journey to the heart of the bad wolf. In the trees by the green, a racket of crows, volleys back and fourth, taking the fifth on their guilt, and as he walks up the hill to home, a soft rain falls, muffling his thoughts.