The Waiting Late bees convene, they interrogate the porch. Paper wasps held together by god knows what visit the seat-sprung, the cane back chairs.
Dark snow goes uphill in narrower runnels on mountains hazed into distance.
Tired summer hangs on. We are not met. If we knew for certain what was needed. If we knew why they sing in our eyes. If we could say the name, the perfect sounds for ground we love.