A cloud sky dusk
becomes self-reflection,
with mountains.
Fog bank mind begins slowly rolling in.
Memory's final calls of the evening
echo, subsiding.
Swift, swallow, bat, all skimming air as I prepare supper.
Moths are dark among the chard now,
last hoverflies land upon hard-centered spent flowers,
that I wait to cut away, in the half-light.
Honey bees, pollen-thighed, have entered hives
while fireflies, small in number but here
give hope to all inconsistencies of midsommer.
Expectancy.
There will be brood for another year, in summer, with clouds,
and gratitude.
____________
Heat-scorched leaves of plectranthus
underneath them
safe young leaves -
plants sacrificing to protect new growth
Catepillars up here
burnt crisp.
I get mad at them when eating my plants,
but feel bad for the burned.
