Summer simmers down, but it isn’t
all gone. So drink slowly, drink
everything, down to the thick,

dark sludge at the bottom
of the cup. Out in the fields,
find what remains when the grain

has separated from the chaff.
Though there might not be much
time left, walk to the end

of the street just to see
how the river is tinged
with colors of fire:

loveliest surface that never rests,
that flares like a beacon in war,
brightest before night comes down.


In response to Via Negativa: War Dance.

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