Monday, September 4, 2017

Poem: Slow Summer's End

Heat-thick air and the scent of
   mown grass
As an old man trims golf-course lines into his
A lone heron over the dry-grass slough,
One circling black dot just above the vivid divide
Between treeline and sky.
Dust-motes hang in the becalmed air,
Drifting among heatlines rising
Off the neighbor's tin roof.
Save for the insects, nature is silent.