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| Mercer, Roadside 9/23/2019 |
Above, tiny, white-bellied planes sail silent
Across the evaporating crust of the moon
Into clouds that might be all that remains of her light
Steaming above us, day-blown
Here at the edge of the over-baked asphalt
In diamond paint splotched like an iceberg
Melted into plastic and crumbled into the weeds
She winks at me, and dreams
It was a good, cool morning and the small toad who was waiting by the table where I ended up this morning stayed nearby as the tree specialists cut down a few branches and then a few trunks not far away, inside the thin puddle of woodland that grows between the parking lot and the picnic area. There were an inchworm, minuscule ants, and a tiny jumping spider, all small as if we're starting over from scratch after the rains of last week.
No deer today, only bunnies and one squirrel and the sense that the rain was lurking in the puddles and waiting to breathe wyrms to coil among the pines once one's back was turned. It's the end of summer by the calendar and the rains are coming to wash away the dust and to bring the green to the backs of the trunks, like a rising crest. It's a delicate time of year, like a mushroom cap that's perfectly frilled and susceptible to the least drop of water from the branches above. Will the heat leave a hardy growth of story behind or will the fall knock it back to the ground?
Too soon to tell, really.
-- Chrissa
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