For today, I will memorize
the two trees now in end-of-summer light

and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward
the black pond, blue

dragonflies
in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen

from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern—
quick—a glimpse of it,

the plume, a fox-tail’s copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,
chasing scent.

The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.

The hawk has its branch in the pine.

White petals ripple in the quiet light. 
~Margaret Gibson from “Solitudes”

I want to memorize it all before it changes:
the shift of sun from north to south barely
balances on our east- west road at equinox.

The flow of geese overhead, honking while waving farewell,
the hawks’ screams in the firs,
dragonflies trapped in the barn light fixtures
several generations of coyotes hollering at dusk.

The pond quiets with cooler nights,
hair thickens on horses, cats and dogs,
dying back of the garden vines reveals
what lies unharvested beneath.

And so we part again, Summer –
your gifts were endless
until you now have parted ways.

I sit silenced, brooding, waiting for what comes next.