Late August, and the long soft hills
are wet with light:
a silken dusk, with shifting thunder
in the middle distance. Chills
of fall have not yet quite
brought everything to ruin.
And I stop to look, to listen
under eaves. The yellow rain
slides down the lawn,
it feathers through the pine,
makes lilacs glisten,
all the waxy leaves. The air
is almost fit for drinking,
and my heart is drenched,
my thirst for something
more than I can see
is briefly quenched.