Late Summer

When the sun reaches that certain point in the sky,
and tints the blue toward twilight a little--just a little,
just enough that I look over my eastern shoulder
for the arrival of the moon--
then I settle in, and wait for the magic.
But sobriety will not come;
my soul tastes adventure in the cooling air
and my heart is beating louder
and harder
and stronger
until I fear it will shake itself loose and
send me dancing across the sharp stubble of hayfield
and out into the wide, wide world
with no protection
no shield of space or time or
trees that rustle and sway in the sundown breeze—
leaves shivering like they, too, have
other places to be.
As if they are aware that soon autumn will come
and they will dance upon the bough no longer
but will skitter in their muted tones of bonfire
across the open ground and
pile, brown and quiet,
to sleep out the winter in the shelter of hollows.