Laced in bluebird's song,
cicada's needle shrill, the
morning rushes toward noon.
I amble through the neighborhood,
pausing, moving on. It is midway
through the month of August,
Bermuda grass already sprawls
and goes to seed. Dew beads glassy,
cupped on blue-green blades
wide as fingers. And in the
eastern sky, silent silver wings
slide beneath a mare's-tail cloud,
it's knife-edged contrail loosens
soon into a bland and terrifying scrawl.