The net is finer than the spider or silkworm's.
Curling, it catches and flares here and there,
grazing down the ribcage of this world
and occupying all spaces, tenderly.

It has come from the farthest places
where a star has passed into senescence
and no light remains.

In August the silver maples
flip and wave backsides of their leaves,
chiming and tinkling under its protection.

So much air and light
has looped through the beaks of birds
and pulled them down from flight.

Departure is what the speaker inhabits.
A self turning photograph
pulling away during the taking.
But slightly over-saturated,
full of the green turned gold.

The earth will become bald white again,
faultless and raked by the winds.
For now, the net slackens out
over the borders of woods
and resting in treetops, safe to be viewed.

A hawk drifting,
turns over the topography of the day's catch
in his eye.

Shadows close like open waters.
But the low and unending dilation of cricket song
of this month plays well beyond dusk.

Hear it extending into you
like delicate limbs
to enter the ear.