Landscape at Summer’s End

The world is currently a film of heat,
a swelter of fires, and at the same time
the depletion of water tables. It's the high
watermark that shows how the last flood
descended from mountains into the valley,
filling all open-mouthed vessels in the glass 
museum. It's the fig tree that erupted
with green nubs before spring 
was underway, each inward facing garden 
unsure of the meanings of begin and end. 
Now the yard's littered with discarded skins
and the beetles are determined to take apart 
every last bit of soft, ripe flesh dangling from 
the branch. The days are their own 
horoscope, sliding from fish to fawn
to bleating goats in the pasture, kestrels
and gulls crying about what else is left
to be done.  All the while, stars revolve,
each in their own dark pocket.  I look
for leftover change in coats and jackets,
saving them in a jar for when I need
to feed a parking meter.

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