Now In Our Days of Dying

We say “Damn time”!

Or we say “Spin us a yarn old man”

And the cracked and crusty leathery one
Licks a gnarled finger
And holding it up drawls,
“Me thinks it’s the winds of heaven blow through here tonight.
The air is thick with harvest.
What say we lay out on the mottled hills
And drink in the pungency,
This world and the other
Mingling finally.”