An Old Southern Tale

Go down in the river bottom
Where the rutted, muddy road
Twists into the shaded shallows
Where wagons used to ford.
None but hawks and crows
Will see you then (it’ll be too late).
Perhaps a fox will peer
From withered, stunted shrubs,
Or an ancient owl from a limb
Just strong enough for wisdom
And the knowledge of death.
They’ll watch you disappear
Under the water’s black hair
Your last words lingering
Like smoke in the autumn air.