On a July Morning
By Pat Anthony
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
Already autumn lurks in the ears
of corn that will be left in field until
the whole of it turns brown and
those same ears turn down, dry
and whispering
Bluebirds and swallows line wires
to practice balance and ballet
their first chitterings foretelling
when all will wing away into
the deeper forests
There is this temptation to say
I want to hold onto now, trap this
light and green and perfect blooms
in burgeoning prairie, but already
a total eclipse
will come to a nearby town and thousands
throng to see some two and a half
minutes of darkness that I so abhor
unless sealed in sleep, shadows and mirrors
a prelude
to what’s coming, an inevitability to slow
these subtle changes, grasses gone to head,
sunflowers turning more slowly to meet
the sun, and those birds, incessant in their
pointing out
to practice balance and ballet
their first chitterings foretelling
when all will wing away into
the deeper forests
There is this temptation to say
I want to hold onto now, trap this
light and green and perfect blooms
in burgeoning prairie, but already
a total eclipse
will come to a nearby town and thousands
throng to see some two and a half
minutes of darkness that I so abhor
unless sealed in sleep, shadows and mirrors
a prelude
to what’s coming, an inevitability to slow
these subtle changes, grasses gone to head,
sunflowers turning more slowly to meet
the sun, and those birds, incessant in their
pointing out