Goldenrod sky
Fire in the distant hay
My stolen breath
I count three shooting stars
as the porch swing rocks to the rhythm
of one desperately lovesick frog.
The temperature has soared;
crowds gather on the lake
for another hot summer day,
but early this morning
I heard the geese leaving,
portents of autumn on the wind.
Evening chorus
is al fresco dining
‘Hello out there!’
‘Where are you, baby?
‘Over here, boys!’
Amphibian karaoke.
Beating out its rhythm of
summer romance.
Hot day.
The mall is packed.
Swimming lessons need a driver
(kids can’t get anywhere by themselves, after all).
Joggers sweating past.
Gas mower chugs obnoxiously around the yard.
I miss the soft swisha-swisha of dad’s old Rotary mower
when summer was gentler
and filled with children’s laughter.