August slips away
Not slowly like a gentle morning mist
But rapidly
Too rapidly
Like a flock of birds startled by a car door slamming
I grasp for it
A desperate clinging spider
in panic
To protect its web
Mourning is just scant weeks away
I recoil at the sight of
Errant orange and red leaves
Displayed brilliantly on lush summer green grass
I listen attentively to crickets in the blackening night
Is their song getting fainter
Are their numbers dwindling?
The bull frogs wane in number
As the strategizing heron grows plump
Their deep throated honking
No longer cacophonic
Sporadic instead
Soon the nights will be stilled again
Mourning is just scant weeks away
August slips from my grasp
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