Dusk return to change all colors–now imbued. The French vanilla begonia appears peach on the rotting picnic table bench; the first periwinkle flowers of one butterfly bush–blue; phlox petals take on a tinge of lavender to part company with their bright fuchsia of late May–when they opened [in] waves.
The sea thistle will transform teal tomorrow’s morning, I am sure. Then silver as the July pages of the calendar flow.
All bird song has ceased with the frantic search for their fallen one. The hawks did witness and caw at the simple burial out front [under the colossal maple after the boys next door were able to dig around its mammoth roots]—their dark scalloped wings and silhouettes gliding [up] high; giving umbrage.
I am holding on to things: stairway balustrades, the dog’s fence, the cemented mailbox–when I stumble out in the yard with spiritual [inner ear] vertigo.
Tonight I will light three thousand the paper lanterns and lament the loss of most of the crickets this year–that have probably, wisely, [post-Trump] relocated to Canada.
If I were the moon rising in a mere hour or so, I would close my eyes. Tired, and all. And sleep in the burgeoning layers of cloud.