Crows fly in a line as if to zip the sky back into itself. So much more in the world has become undone— But in the garden are roots that refuse to surrender to the trowel, and clover settling the spots flattened by tires. We stay suspended in this time short as a sigh. As soon as the last jasmine fades and cicadas give up their coats, the rains return. Nights flicker. The dead still keep their counsel.