Summer and the day drifts and shifts away. Like clouds. Shape of a rooster or whale. Shaded patterns along grasses. Branches that bend against sky. Or leaves. Dappled. There are shouts of a man and the bark of a dog. Voice of an owl calling, in an evening, as the day slips, as you study the shadows, as you wish against a burning light. A star, then stars appear. Each as silent as doubt.
Summer and you own the clouds. The sky. Some mean pattern, some shape that gives rise to owls in the trees. Voices heard long after the dappled patterns of leaves disappear. Trees against a silent dark. The flat, white of a moon adrift. Or rising.
Again. Again. And again. Another morning and drying grass in an august heat. Robins and grasshoppers. Cicadas. A backyard. Yours or the neighbors or a town. Or in between. Raucous as if summer was still the shape of a cloud or a pleasured refrain and everything had not ripened away. The days slip. As if the owls. That moon.
Except the moon. That has a shape and lift to the night and dapples the leaves or pattern of trees and their branches and throws to the ground the burning light. To owls that come. To stars. And a crowded sky. Silent as doubt. And that empty time, like summer, and the way a day can shift and shape and drift away.