The heat even stifles the birds-
In no hurry to begin their morning chatter.
There are more nests than usual this year
But fewer eggs.
Fewer hopping fledglings.
Maybe it’s the full moon gliding across the sky
Wearing Jupiter like a hat and filling the valley with
A gauzy glow.
I’ll have no problem seeing the deer if she trespasses
Into the garden again.
The rocks-chosen carefully for size and weight
Line the table beside the steaming coffee cup.
Best to drink it now, it will be too hot once the sun rises.
There was a time when a plundering doe would have left
Here on her last gallop spurting crimson where the arrow had pierced her.
Hard to remember such things with St. Francis smiling
Benignly in the moonshine under the grapes.
But still, a solid rock to the ribs will serve as notice to
Go and eat someone else’s tomatoes.
They are tireless, though in their labors,
Building frantically as if a new nest, near the old one,
Will make their eggs viable.
They couple and squawk and dive and scree, not understanding
Why none of it works anymore.
Up on the back street Rudy’s truck slips quietly into
It’s spot under the mulberry.
He must be back at work.
