Sunset is near, and the gusts are growing more frequent. It will probably be another windy night. But never mind. The young leaves, though premature, are firmly fixed to the twigs and will not fall. Tomorrow is apt to be much like today, though a bit cooler, but the sky just as clear, the landscape unchanged (I hope) by the swift air. Tonight, however, will be chilly, and might even get as cold as a winter day should be. We're unlikely to get closer for the remainder of the season. I might go out at midnight, close my eyes tightly, and pretend it's noon.
Whether it will be cold enough to discourage the pollen for a few hours I don't know. But I can dream.
by Linda Gregg
All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.