On High Summer

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.