and swear, what you once
called August is autumn.
Feel the bite in the air,
the chill in the canals
and estuaries,
fleeing, don't ask what:
this light lasts an instant
like your life,
and you, turning the pages
of your newspaper
never see how tenaciously
the sha.dows stay
before they are erased
by the dark,
how the broad-tailed hawk tests
that branch like an acrobat
and free-falls over the sedge
before swiftly ascending the spruces;
how the black bear
wads up the hedgehog's fur
and leaves it tangled in the kelp
and driftwood on the beach
without a track,
what riotous
unrequited creatures
go into the vegetable rows,
searching for corn
when storms are predicted.
AUGUST IS NOT A MONTH
The season, to speak in the language of seasons,
is ending, and sweetly- with breezes.
The summer, which season it was, is ending
more sadly than any season will ever end.
