Where in dry grass lives the thrash of young birds
It shifts with presence, quiet, ulterior
Or in the dust of creekside field
Parents feigning broken wings

It’s all an ashy tumble
This June air, with August feeling
Sweat puts up clouds as it strikes earth
There are columns of smoke in this valley

Yet, it is not deep Summer
A wave rises, lapping at the ridge’s far line
Damp twilight pushing past the rainshadow
Then spilling over, cold

Where are the dry places now
June rain does not placate with straight flight paths
It fills and moves with sinews
It soothes the dust back to sleep, comprehensively

By true evening, the shifting has begun again
Higher in the column
There are gaps in the clouds, and still
Down here, we seek shelter

By tomorrow morning, yellow light returns
There is balance in the green dew
The only storms are swirls of swallows
Joyful at the small flies’ refreshed endeavors

And the next day, who knows

~Solomon