Satisfied in August

I wanted to share with you the scent

of the cliff rose this morning, honeyed milk drifting

from the tiny fried egg blooms tinged barely green,

unblinking in the morning sun.  Side oats gramma grass

tickles my knees as I follow the tracks in the dried mud 

of the trail.  Coyote and plain old dog, for sure,

the vaguely heart-shaped deer impression, too, and here

and there, bobcat, I hope.  All around, a rainbow blooms:

orange globe mallow, smoky purple verbena, fiery Indian

paintbrush, yellow goldenrod, datura, purest white and deadly. 

There’s another too, which I’ve not noted before, with

gentian trumpets.  How many greens would you perceive,

from the lush grasses, monsoon-summoned, to trees and

shrubs, satisfied in August.  A solitary blue-black

feather floats on a swaying grass cluster, a raven’s calling

card dropped from thermals high above.  The breeze shifts,

curls around my ear, whispers, autumn’s on its way, on its way,

on its way.  There is a knowing, a stirring inside, an urge to prepare

and preserve, to gather and stash, yet this morning, this first, for you.