Ends of circles are
lost in the beginnings of
things just now starting.

Wind in the treetops
speaks quietly to me with
tears for things long gone.

Ink black sky alive
with snakes of yellow lightening
and torrents of rain.

The longer I live,
the more my mother's words are
right, "Never should have...."

Poor old thing, scratching
at fleas that aren't there, pissing
on things not marked yet.

The fog seems somehow
dry - a soft blanket on the
scattering of leaves.

The yard has grown thick,
forested with tall weeds of
late summer's monsoon.

Warm rains are bringing
the bright winds of fall as wet
leaves sway forcefully.

The dense green holds on
to all the moisture there has been,
and looks up for more.

Life would be simplier
if I were a blade of grass
waiting on winter.

Black angles of birds
float and drift between raindrops
Heading south, I guess.

The pale, white sky is
somehow fractured and shining
with the threat of storms.

Still and starless nights
are great for seeing pop flies
shooting off a bat.

Always amazing
that darkness comes so early
as summer moves on.

The spongy, wet ground
gooshes beneath my sandles as
wet grass paints my feet.

Like dots of gray in
jet black hair, bits of turning
leaves sprinkle the green.

The air has thickened,
and summer gasps out hot breathe
sticky with moisture.

They sit in darkness,
sinister little bastards,
waiting for leavings.

Yellow harvest moon
peeking shyly through curtains
of whispy, gray clouds.

A whiff of desiel,
mixed with smells of manure and
sugar - farm kid bliss.

A brilliant, wet green
so bright it hurts my eyes was
left behind by storms.

Fall has come early
riding on the rain's coattails,
washing summer out.

September arrived
bringing a morning chill and
stray leaves on the grass.