Gust

Breezes rise to gusts, the sudden rustle of leaves is punctuated by a slamming door. This is the hot night wind of late summer, blowing west from the deserts of Nevada. It is fitting accompaniment to the buzzing cicadas. Summer will burn its way through the next week, even though tomorrow is the autumnal equinox. It will dry the leaves before they drop to the parched ground where they will rattle as the wind takes them. I hear some now, heading across the street to be caught against the picket fence the crescent moon's departure has left invisible. September is all leavings and memories.


( Sunday Verse )