These lazy days, this turbid heat, the
disingenuous air and the smell of warm,
dry grasses and sounds that cling to air;
not crickets but birds. Daily, less and less
with their wings; bands of black triangles,
thrown into the sky.
Is there a temperature of despair? A loss
so deep it must resist its own knowing?
Fall colors make the deer hard to see,
but their daily course bends browned
marsh grasses and their hooves leave
half moon marks in the hardening mud.
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