The liles are dead;
dried amber stalks in the sun
hold wrinkled orange.

buzzing late summer
with its twilight white noise hum
alive in hot sound.

The grass is burned crisp
in most places, thirsty for
even my dog's pee.

Air too thin to breathe
but clear enough to glimpse all
of the endless fall.

Chunks of glacier sit
looming on the bare slopes of rock
laughing at the sun.

Panting on the couch,
my dog's tounge droops with the heat
of an evening walk.

A house with a stream
running under the windows -
that would be heaven.

Awakened to squriels
racing on the lawn; they have
returned to my trees.

Just because they say
they'll call, doesn't mean they will-
surely you know that.