Surrounded by indigo fields,
I turn off the yard light and sit
on this summer night listening
to the sounds between the sounds
of crickets wafting their chants
on the lazy breeze, unmoved
by the discontent of hounds
in the distance baying
at the plaintive whistles of trains,
the rustle of gravel under passing cars.
The clock nods and blinks
on evenings like this, then retires.
The industry of spring has passed:
and the branches of fruit trees—
that snagged rags of clouds
and made them blossom—
now sag with orbs of quiet fire.
Meanwhile, the paint cans of autumn rest
undisturbed in storage, and the wind
that will turn—sure as a hawk,
when winter bears down—
sleeps in the forest.