As the dog sniffs out wild onions,

dew collects upon her feather coat &

our dank mornings weigh down

all that is cotton. Though some sense of

lightness feels near, but on hold,

the cold hiding out in lonely valleys

far off, singing low, carried on wings up

windward mountain slopes. We know it

without words. In these bellied hills

we can still drink sweated glasses of iced

tea with sugar sweet & wear white - toe to

head well past Labor Day, though we dream

of memories; cooler nights & fireside.