A poem for the season of death

august 16

the last cicada singing the death knell of summer

sweat on the seat of the swing, sticking flies to the plastic

16 years old, sun setting on the thick green 

flowerless waves of the forest, fenced off

creek low, water flows over rocks 

unskipped and unstepped on

ducklings head down in the water, hawks eyes down in the sky

cicadas dying, floating in stale pool chlorine

stars clear and burning, fighting through still, dry clouds

august 17