Fewer masks these days -
August, and the sky is clear.
Western rivers still run cold.
Rain falls at last upon dry lands.
In spite of hoppers, grass and wheat
Replenish the living.
Sleek cattle slow their grazing.

So, why this weariness?
Why the onsetting brood?
From whence the cloud, ennui?
This cynic stirs in search of hope.