And pheasant hunting is coming .
Summer's sun no longer to shine .
Maybe the flowers are crying ?
Maybe I know why ?
I think , it's the end of many things
Our days of fishing long days ,
Our long days in the sun ,
Our days lean toward a grayer end .
The snow may come
Not the long slow rain .
I have a friend who will share my
sadness
And who will wait for me
No matter how long it will take
And together we will wait
For softer winds and brighter skies .
I know and he knows
I get older in October .
By Brock
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