Corn going to seed steals yellow sun
from the brow of marigold
and a quilt of silvery lupine.
Across the August afternoon runs
a humid belly of roiled rain,
then the tick and pop of hail as ponds pond.
East of Kline Kill, a mown field
grows and will whiten with the next snow,
months away but sure again:
it's yet midsummer.
Littered into this road cut excavation
like the rusted Schlitz cans or rhus vernix,
I have thrown myself into the trees
that now can scream green no louder.
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