The grackles visit us mornings
in great, black droves before the wasteful
swelter of grace sets in. The heat’s enough
to sweep the senses gently into shaded ways
where autumn and August dance, tempt poplars
to an early show, rain silver carpets
for bikes. Mine stopped now
by water’s edge in the thick
of rotting-lakeweed-air, my thanks
turn from rushing lake-long winds on humid days
to the gulls between the blues.
The flock is few, but watch the sky bend
to their humble wishings. It is all
too much with me—life
breath over lakeweed; such heat to thaw
unfeeling bones the body weeps;
jackdaws raining on the lawn for a feast
they did not set; a day swaddled
in salmonberry rainbows
and lightning
in skies of tangerine.