Nineteen

Nineteen

I am standing, I am watching on the
strait of southern grass through which the fickle
current of fogs undulates in the

early part of day before the skyfire
lifts enough to sear it off. I do not
notice the hawks above until I see my

dog’s muzzle tracking them; the most
sky-aware dog I’ve ever seen, heart all
witched with things that glide and soar and perch

and sing. We move along and bees begin
their sorties across our path, seeking the remaining
sweetpea and Rose of Sharon, saddlebags packed

with gold, hourglass ever before them as they
try and outfly the time when frost will sheet their
dried and silenced shells. The dog selects

our tempo and I step it off behind him,
looking back to watch the river of mist
between the knobs, recalling that with one day

yet in the month there have been nineteen,
and the grayhairs of my youth all whisper
to me that I’d better watch the wooly-

worms because we might be in for it come
November. The sweat along my neck prevents
the dread of colder days, the abstract air,

the silent sky, the toes all numb, the low-
slung light forever boring into my face
while fog becomes black ice and kills the sleepy

driver while the sleeping frogs beneath
the frigid mud await the tilt towards
the warming star of which they sing and dream.

~ S.K. Orr