Summer calling in August, for the bird named after Saints.
There is a befitting proposition for them both, the season and the bird. She is offered to fall in love for a day, for less than a day, and in so many words, she does.

Two migratory birds dove into hopes and dusted dreams,
Picked the salt form old wounds, binding and mending, singing loss,
Crafting off of creational dust, making new things.

The their giving and giving, given into spent, like pendulums swing. Nature has tricks up her sleeve, and her hopes and promises are not the hopes of promises we keep.

Flying, looking for something over the water.
Wanting under depths of wanting, under depths of imaginations.
The two got stuck deep in the chemical dreaming of songs that played pretend.
The heat lost in the sun, and the season dies in a shell of milky
Indifference.

Birds swoop for signs in the air, flying and hoping that something would land in their narrow mouths so that they may go home and go to sleep.
They glide on. Hoping for ends to their broken songs, dipping and diving farther and farther away, with the batting of imagined wings behind their backs.