August, a month passed
waiting for a gust of wind
to wind summer down.

Heat, sweat, scent of grass,
a million-armed sun grasping
at the August world.

So many robins
strutting on our August lawns:
'tis globird warming.

The old man squats, sighs,
shakes his shrunken head. August
is now, it seems, March.

The flies of August
foreshadowing for us the
flies of December.