There is no wind this morning, but-
the goldenrods and purple asters heads
wave and sway in rhythm
to the hidden breeze- the drunken bees
that dance and hum
the ancient song
that summer's done.
The fervid drone in morning's heat
would make a liar of the date,
and begs the season stay awhile- forever, even.
But the slalom of the squirrels dash
through grass and branch
to build their stash
trace an urgency that tells
the summer's end.
