On High Summer
dealt no more, the advance of wood warblers
thru the new leaf, now its burdock and chickory.
tree swallows rent the tip of the ravine, folding
up wings. tobacco flowers topped, the bottoms
yellow like the stains they will make on an old
white taffetta dress. wheats so far gone now,
its all been processed. only gods know what
intrudes in the grass.
far-out, terns—just look at the shape!
they make white noise around them,
mutable lines of type, then abandon
punctuation over the shrinking pond.
and the crickets sound like rattlesnakes.
intrudes the occasional, last of the night hawks
announce thru a slightly hooked upper lip, as the
metronome of us synchs up, walking on gravel.
corn is tall and i am wondrin if it will keep
time better than we can.