weary of the hum of air conditioners
and barbeques and back-to-school harries.
Above us to the north,
the evening cloud bank advances:
a storm is on its way.
As we slip into our silent Sunday splash
the warm pool drowning out Monday’s urgencies
and the dove cooing: tooooo sooon, toooooo soooon,
a red-tail hawk floats overhead
silencing the birds on the wire–
the mockingbird no longer mocking
the blue jay no longer scolding
the dove sits still and
from the stormy sky
crows weave in and out of formation.
“There,” I point out, “there!
There is a pattern! Triads!”
And, just as quickly as they are gone,
A great eagle soars and alights
upon the great oak above our pool.
Stillness rises restlessly.
I’m not here, the birds seem to say.
I was so irritated
I was so wickedly irritated
that I needed to clean the pool to get in
and look what magic appeared
as summer ebbs and the workweek begins anew.