The dark silhouette
in the crab apple anchors the morning.
Catbird listening. 6-22-11
A wall of pink--
dusty for the dusty
bees. 6-25-11
The black and white dragonfly
is very dragonlike on my shoulder,
on my white blouse. 6-29-11
From all sides
the cicadas
box our ears. 7-13-11
Through cicadas' scattered
and broken calls comes
the smooth blue voice
of one mourning dove. 7-18-11
A noise in the woods.
Later from the green wall,
three red deer emerge
unafraid of the old poet
writing in her red journal. 7-24-11
Summer light comes lower now
through yellow wood poppies,
across sassafras' horizontal hands,
spilling sideways over myrtle's dropped seeds,
touching down into an August that comes on now
even as it rolls away. 7-25-11
The air moves easily again,
not burdened with heat or water.
We breathe.
Cicadas breathe.
Fish crow breathes.
The squirrel breathes,
munches on ripe crab apples. 7-26-11
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