The ant on the journal runs,
looks for herself. The pages
smell familiar, the old footsteps. 8-7-11
Like a slow snow,
the abandoned skins of spiders
float down, catch on our toes.
Somewhere the new skins harden.
Summer ripens. 8-10-11
Under the black umbrella
counting hummingbirds,
swelling poke berries,
the single sounds of rain. 8-13-11
Weighted by last night's
rain, the woods lean heavily
over cricket's many voices. 8-19-11
Almost half a moon,
a mourning cloak,
and a blue dragonfly,
repeating. 8-22-11
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