Lunar

The last full moon of summer is bright, producing extravagant nocturnal contrasts. Deep shadows might conceal anything, while all that is moonlit seems terribly exposed. This afternoon, I filled the bowl of water I have under the lilac bush for the birds. It will soon catch a tiny moon, but for now it lies dark. The birds were happy to have fresh water to assuage the discomforts of a hot afternoon. I watched large blue jay drink, and a hummingbird darted above, vainly seeking nectar from the long-dead lilac blossoms. An acorn dropped onto the metal roof of the garage beyond the back fence, shattering the tranquility. Summer seemed near its fevered end. Tonight the still and birdless air remains balmy, but the smell of summer-dry grass is accompanied by hints of a deeper scent; the decaying leaves now moldering in those shadowy corners the moonlight fails to reach. Autumn won't be long delayed.

The most morose of lunar poems for ( Sunday Verse )