AUGUST SONG
This side of the wire,
the summer weeds
I couldn’t kill are dying now –
light-brown, brittle, little
trees shedding seeds
for next year’s spraying, tough
immigrants from farm ground
camped along the right-of-way
that can’t stand grazing –
germinating late,
but lopped-off early
after the grass turns blond
on hills beyond.
Azure, pungent little canopies,
mourning dove under mullein
ripening, the August song
of long shadows streams from ridges,
stretches darkly from blue oaks down,
before the acorns fall and deer
collect unseen. Listening,
I lean against my rock like Sisyphus,
watch an oriole and wren agree
upon the pickup’s bumper, preening
the grill for thistle seeds and
cleaning the chrome for bugs
as if I wasn’t here at all.