The dogs are restless.

And so the evening starts.

The croaking herons raised my eye,

And I thought, as I always do,

How like pterodactyls they are

The cocktail is kicking in.

A rarity for me, it seemed

A luxury to balance the

Fall I took teasing my way

Down hill, carefully but not,

It seems, carefully enough.

No nihilism today.

Yes, it’s hotter than hell,

But it’s bloody summer

In Tennessee

I am watching a wasp

Build a paper nest

With deliberate precision

I can only envy.

I have heard the mermaids

Singing each to each—

This is not their song.

We sat beneath the trees, sheltered

From the midday sun by a canopy of

Oak and walnut leaves that played

A toneless music when cued to motion

By the wind

My feet and legs are dirty still despite the shower,

Run with streaks of black-brown where the water

From the mulch cascaded from the surprisingly

Permeable plastic bag and the clean water and soap

Failed to, well, clean.

My skin is summer leather,

Tanned and supple save for

A few crinkly edges where

Sun and age remind that

Summer will bring winter

Summoned by the season,

I will wake into darkness,

Stretch life into dormant limbs

And rise from this cloistered

Bed where I have slept

A sort of frenzy rides the winds,

And instinct sure responds

It’s as if the sky’s been rent and the

Frigid-fingered beyond reached in

To fill the void with void.

The knees know it’s November,

Aching and creaky as the balding trees.

May the wine uncork the words.

Three hedge apples by the road

Two days before October

One hour before sunset

I’m standing at the blackboard, chalk

In one hand, eraser in the other, and

Just when I think I’ve got it balanced,

The molecules get scrambled

How quickly it turns, the time,

Days racing by like rockets

Barely glimpsed then lost to the

Horizon, gone before we could

Make out their markings,

Much less their destinations.

The flowers are scraggly this year, less bloomy

Than leggy and faded as if they’d already felt

The first frost.

My feet are dirty despite the shower,

And I’ve decided I’m fine with that,

A sign of character . . .

Nothing much to say tonight.

The patio is fixed, at last,

By my labor once removed . . .