Interstice

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

c.sdmrogers 30 august 2009
c.sdmrogers 2015