This time of year decay is yet dry. When the rain comes the fallen leaves and dead grass will begin to mold, but for now they remain like husks that still recall their former life, or like old, yellow paper from which a story written long ago has begun to fade. Summer is like a bitch who has weaned her pups. She snarls and snaps and turns her back. No milk for you. The easy time is over. You're on your own.
by A.E. Stallings
The two of them stood in the middle water,
The current slipping away, quick and cold,
The sun slow at his zenith, sweating gold,
Once, in some sullen summer of father and daughter.
Maybe he regretted he had brought her—
She'd rather have been elsewhere, her look told—
Perhaps a year ago, but now too old.
Still, she remembered lessons he had taught her:
To cast towards shadows, where the sunlight fails
And fishes shelter in the undergrowth.
And when the unseen strikes, how all else pales
Beside the bright-dark struggle, the rainbow wroth,
Life and death weighed in the shining scales,
The invisible line pulled taut that links them both.