Monthly Archives: August 2008

Steady drizzle after three weeks of drought. The quiet, continuous insect trill in the grass sounds the way I feel—however that may be.

Rising late, I see the sun has arrived before me, burning through the haze, striping the wet woods with glistening paths, warming my seat.

For the second dawn in a row, it’s 47°F. I watch two midges hover above the railing. A long blast of the paper-plant whistle: morning shift.

Sun in the treetops. A doe and her fawn are consuming the future of the forest, one oak or tulip poplar seedling at a time. The doe burps.

The far side of the driveway is dusted in white—snakeroot coming into bloom. The poison that killed Lincoln’s mother, distilled in milk.

The lowest limb of the tulip poplar trembles as a four-point buck briefly fences with the leaves. The minor-key wail of a distant train.

The woods’ edge is at the base of a hill; all I see of the doe foraging under the trees are delicate legs and the spinning flag of her tail.

Up at 4:45 to watch the meteor shower, I carry a folding chair out onto the driveway and look up: nothing. Clouds. A raindrop hits my face.

The crown of a black walnut tree at the edge of the woods is already spotted with yellow. When a wind comes up, it scatters left-over rain.

Clear sky, but the sun in the treetops is a little wan, as if filtered through a dirty window. Traffic sounds carry from over the ridge.

My brother’s new car sits in the weeds, sleek and white, like an emissary from another world come to repatriate the plastic stack chairs.

At the end of one refrain, a mourning dove pauses and adds an extra syllable, as if correcting itself. The cheery yellow of St. John’s wort.