It’s end of August, Sunday. – Blue-hazed air
round distant pine trees in late afternoon;
toward glowing stubblefield, now fiery-plumed,
from grit-path dust clouds flees a scuttling hare.
Old-fashioned dahlias, like giant taws,
glow the entire length of the farmhouse wall
in perfect line; and chittering swallows call
around the barn, across the path’s wire-gauze.
The sand’s still loose from Saturday’s keen rake;
edged with the cautious footsteps that folks take;
a shadow-point of bean-leaf now quite spare
lies in the path’s traced furrows here and there;
in muffled gusts through the closed window come
fleeting strains played on a harmonium.