Midsummer Journal

I

A nighthawk on the far side of the wash

swallows time on the wing. Night’s final seconds

disappear as he glides

through them. Five a.m., counterpoint

of birdsong rising, six a.m. the loop road starts to hum,

seven and a silent red-tail

perches on a street lamp with a hunter’s eye

and an early breeze in feathers the shade

of a juvenile. The news is out there

 

somewhere in between

the clouds. The sky knows all about the new

report that says beware

of men in blue. We aren’t in the old country now

where if you want to know the time

you ask a policeman. Storms in the forecast,

peace in the valley, it’s a day to accuse and a day

for excuses. When, o when will

 

the wind finally come

to strip language down to truth: the facts, Ma’am, just

the facts. Fact is it will

be hot today, the light will skip across

the golf course pond and rabbits

still run faster than shadows.

 

II

The moon slipped on a silver gown last night

and flirted with the thunder

rolling far away. Midsummer,

silky clouds, mockingbirds sing the day awake.

The sun can see forever

while here there’s only now.

Temperatures today ten degrees

cooler than yesterday, quail along the back wall, doves

come down for water from

the trees where all

great unanswered questions go to roost.

 

III

Melancholy lingers on the mountain’s shoulder.

The air remembers rain

but none will fall

except perhaps on high ground. That kind

of day past weather seems

 

to smile, when summer was a forest

trail and atmosphere

was thin. Dipper in the river,

stormlight overhead, goshawk and nuthatch

and trees. Now here,

a desert mountain occupies the moment

and says

 

rocks are never lonely, be glad

to share the time with them;

if you never had the experience

you wouldn’t have the memories.

 

IV

Suet for the White-wings, carrots

for the quail, thistle seed for finches

and water for them all. The Sunday street’s

as lonely as a monastery

where silence is the rule and these hot

afternoons make solitude

an avenue to peace. There’s comfort in the company

of birds: here’s sugar-water for the Costa’s hummingbird

and woodpecker who taps

a question to the universe,  plus half

an orange for the grackles – bless

their glossy, murderous hearts.

 

V

Clouds on parade across the sunrise,

Four Peaks draped with doubt

and the forecast is more for storms than contemplation

in coming days. Restlessness will build

into the evening, the will it won’t it monsoon

mood will linger and there’ll be

a good night’s sleep for the workers due to mend

the city starting early

 

when chainsaws bare their teeth. They don’t

complain about the heat,

just cut, plant, dig and lean back

on the sunlight. Hot? they say, no problemo,

it’s just the same

as yesterday.

 

VI

Urban street, desert sky, clouds floating

in the clouds, a trace

of wind more like a sigh, white thunder building.

 

A heron this morning

flew out of the sun, and cast a shadow

that bristled with light.

 

Where from? Where to? So many questions

hanging loose, but all

the phone lines to infinity are cut.

 

VII

Lightning midnight, hummingbird dawn,

coyotes in the wash, memories at large among

creatures of the night. Scent of rain,

cold moonlight and

the warm air reaches out

to catch the wind by the tail.

 

VIII

Grey, grey all the way

from the mountain’s heart to where the sky

turns dark. It’s cloud over shadow,

velvet emptiness, where creation

never thought

 

of what it might become. No room there for thrashers,

no eagles, ocelots, or jaguars trying to find

their way back to the Earth. There’s one or more

tonight in Arizona taking back

its hunting ground, spitting out stars

after eating its fill. Let it rain, let

 

thunder call for help, let lightning point the way;

whatever this night brings, for him

there will be stars enough.

 

IX

Midsummer sun, short line at the supermarket

past tabloids with their made-up news

about the royal family and Hollywood

romance; never mind

the pain and suffering involved

for those surviving on the street

 

not to speak of how the local police

punish them for being poor. It isn’t far

to trouble, someone slashing tires in a parking lot

of the apartments where his mother lives

and she

 

is ever faithful to her son, says

to leave the boy alone he’s only schizophrenic

like the world he lives in.

The candidates

have put election signs at 48^th and Elliot, the best

 

looking in full color to show

their glamour hair in portraits fit

for front pages. No mention there of how it feels

 

to be out on the pavement at noon in

the midsummer sun, the hard working midsummer sun.