This still Summer Sunday
quiet shimmers in early sunlight
with the hoverflies and beetles
waking in the gardens.
Even the gravel trucks and tractors
that will again rip the asphalt
outside my windows tomorrow
powered by bones of mastodons
and heat of human hands,
sit silent, gears slowly coating
with morning’s dew and dust.
Only tiny garden beasts
the painted milk snake and the toad
take a final turn in the wet air
before hiding their soft beauties
in the hollows of weed and stone.
Something stirs and whirs,
cicada or cricket or bee or all,
calls the first ray creeping
across the fennel and milkweed
along the wires of wild strawberry
and summons the day.
