Late August Malaise
Near the end of August,
in the languor of hot, humid hours,
I begin to lose focus -
so many arrivals and departures:
beach plums appear, then ripen,
swallows gather in great numbers,
flit randomly in loose flocks,
staging their leave to southern skies.
After a season of protection
and careful noting of fecundity,
plovers have deserted the beach.
A memory returns of one
who left last summer,
not to reappear in our time;
another arrives from abroad.
Some leaves look weary, already
dropping their garment of green.
They release to run amok
among grasses that ripen to gold.
Nature looks overgrown
and dusty, not quite under control,
ready to let it all go.
Autumn will cool this clamor,
then winter will settle it all
under a blanket of white.