The season of brown grass, of burnt leaves,
Still on the limb. Even the sky is bleached
A blue-tinted white; the very air smells hot.
The glass of ice water sweats itself slick.
I remember the cicada song in the morning,
The sound of the rising sun, a sound like haze
In the brain. Little anoles emerge, scramble
Up the fences, flare brilliant green to scare
Off rivals. The laughing gulls don’t care about
The time of year—there is no weight on the wing.
The shirt sticks on the back, and you must run
Across the sand, fast as you can, as you burn.
When I’m complaining about the weather then,
I’ll remember November mists in August for now.
