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September 1st  

And life north of  the Forty-Fifth Parallel has grown age’d  

And it’s still hot 

Bumble bees, along with the yellow jackets, are for the most part few

Occasionally but more frequently, one sees the insect remainders on the ground, and flitting with the ghost of Death, orchestrating all 

And soon, the Equinox and our Fall   

Yet, the Sun rides high

But the shadows elongate

And wood fire smoke of an evening flows over the land, like a fog but (definately) not on cat’s feet 

As Summer, like a once-young man, suddenly finds himself into old age 

Nearing Departure