It is almost eighty;
Relentless sun shines brightly;
It's not even noon.
Rooster in the heat;
Warmth has tempered his crowing;
Rounding out edges.
Was it long ago
This tree was bare and leafless?
Will it be again?
A chorus of hums
Floats from the tree above me--
It's a million bees.
Walking into shadows
Old lady brings some old leaves
To drop in the woods.
On the large boulder
Leaves are etched in dark shadows;
Ancient as the rock.
In the thick hot sun
Goldenrod seems more golden.
What does the bee know?
Purple, like clover,
Armed with a hundred swords
The first thistle blooms.
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