Late August. The moon is the shape of a finger nail over the lake beyond the lake. The dog flies into the brush for a show. She bounds in fields of hay as the sky’s stroke grounds us. My skin is the color of terra cotta, baked. The air is warm, grassy and alive. And the big dipper hangs like a pitcher, pouring the stars onto my head.
These are good days, these are good days, these are the good days.
The foragefor black bundles of pea-sized clusters like ornaments, their weight causing each tip to bow. With sun at my back and before the birds a bowl filled.
On the beach the jaws of—a fish? Teeth like a comb.
Peach, goldenrod, orange sherbet. A dog howls ah-ah-aOoo There are chirps and croaks and the flap of birds wings from tree to tree. Insects float in silhouette, two spiders suspended from a railing, spinning their evening webs.