The birds chatter their celebration
of summer's end and the beginning of autumn. How lovely a morning, they seem to be saying. No dew on the windshield, a light cloud cover overhead; daughter and son-in-law coming home from Montana tomorrow, I should sing in celebration too.
Wind in the flag at the cemetery, from west to east. In the country I can see a swatch of open sky to the west. Is it the hole the wind blows through? In the east the overcast wants to break up over Lake Michigan. To the north, low to the horizon, another blue hole.
A dead pheasant along the way this morning, a dead racoon. A certain darkness. The passing shadows. Four Canadian geese headed to the northwest. The way the grasses bend. Even as I write grasses I hit a sparrow with the car, kill it.
Crows in the rearview mirror, playing tag. Is that what the past is?
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