Goldenrod has bloomed while we were gone, the five varieties in the unmowed field now opening in succession.
In June, daisies follow the sun. In July, milkweed flowers. In September, it will be asters.
Summer flows molten with us or without us.
At sunset we sit beside a small fire to keep away mosquitos. From behind a shutter, a bat launches its hunt, then another, patrolling the blue air in silhouette.
The quarter moon sets through the pines.
The night has a thousand notes.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
