In August

Heat urges secret odors from the grass. Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill. Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass. Laced pools: the warm wood-shadows ebb and fill. The wind is casual, loitering to crush The sun upon his palate, and to draw Pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush, Sucked up through thin grey boughs as through a straw. Moss-green, fern-green and leaf and meadow-green Are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads, Less moved by stirring air than by unseen Soft-footed ants and meditative toads. Summer is passing, taking what she brings: Green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings.