Interstice

summer ends

despite the heat that
doubtless
dauntless 
lies ahead, August dies
white
while
September dawns  plum
deep with the promise of
                                             sleep
to come                                    

the sweet-smelling dung
of well-fed cattle clings
tenderly
to the
shrouded morning air, as

across the chaparral
Little Bluestem bends to
brown before  Bluegrass
                                             wakes
beneath the sandy ground

Hereford babies
                             curl
against a momma’s
back, and

i long

to join them
i long

to nuzzle
i long

to press
the last canicule
                             sun
from my skin
in
to
their hides, all of us the
                                       same
rubicund brown
as the blood-ruddy
                                  clay
from which we come

© s rogers 30 August 2009

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