thistle stalks with silvery thorns
not yet turned iron in the summer heat
the explosion of a buckeye’s start
poppies close up after hours
helicopters go on a spree
a robin squats in a squirrel’s nest
weekenders no longer
melt in the distance leaving her
drenched in her own mist
getting steady with a walking stick
as though there were no distance
between here and there,
as though clouds
not cataracts
covered the sun