By Thomas Page

246

The squirrels, privateers

Of the forest, raid the bird

Feeders for bounty

 

247
The water cycle,

Amplified by the summer

Heat. I need water

 

248

Schedules, gardens

Of time, bloom regularly

Like the clocks on walls

 

249

What are the birds of Summer?

They all congregate

In common comp’ny

 

250
July, named for the

General, blazes with the heat—

Crossing Rubicon

 

251
Electricity

Is tapped solely from a wall

Like a hidden spring

 

252
Rummaging through trash,

Feral cats look for handmade

Meals discarded there

 

253

What is the lost tune

Of a faded lyre strung

To different sunsets?

 

254
A treasure map inked

With systematic, curved lines

Written long ago

 

255
Words aren’t the products

Of blacksmiths permanently

Shaped into one form

 

256
The fog is heavy

And surprisingly balmy—

Fallen summer clouds

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