Late Summer

All afternoon the heat presses down.
The fields hold their breath.
Even the insects sound tired of themselves.

The sky is a hard blue bowl
and the sun sits in it
without mercy.

The grass pales.
The road shimmers.
A dog lies in the narrow shade
of a fence post.

Nothing moves
unless it must.

You might think
this is the way the world intends to stay—
summer ruling everything
with its bright, unblinking eye.

But listen.

Something is already changing.

A wind slips through the trees
with a cooler voice.
The leaves answer softly.

In the orchard the apples are heavy now,
pulling the branches down.
A gull crosses the pale sky
toward the water.

Soon the evenings will open
like quiet doors.

The air will loosen.
The fields will breathe again.

And we will walk out into it—
not as conquerors,
not even as guests,

only as creatures of this turning earth,

grateful

for the long patience of the seasons.