Turning

The tendril shriveled
as it left the stalk behind;
and the fruit and the bark

as they sloughed off the last
of the heated days. The deck
chairs tilted to the left

as if tipsy. The lawn
lay clipped in a haze
of medium green.

When the sun went down,
it did so darkly.
You couldn’t see the flash

of synchronized wings,
but you heard the sound
they made, departing.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Armchair traveler.

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