High Summer

grass high and dry and
seeded as wheat
tips too close for focus
belly on the blanket beside it

a bowl of blueberries,
almost gone

the rain pretends to come
but no one cares
not even the cat

written july 31 — lughnasadh — feast of the grain harvest

Through the Gates, in July, Something Different

you step through three gates of trees
expecting to see something different
and you always do

today, a turkey
almost to the end of the boardwalk
through the swamp, just before

a stream-bed that’s mostly mud
with the one big stone you’ve hopped
a thousand times

where you can glimpse
one of the huge houses
whose owners have been building again

you stop long enough to regard him
and he calls to you, or to
a well-hidden mate, you can’t determine

his gobble uniquely his
and nothing really like
the english word we made for it