the cicadas are ringing in the changes as the sun weakens
the blue of the sky a pale translucent cup, streaked creamy with cumulus
the house pulsates with the scents of ironed linen, baked goods and tangy onion salt:
on the doorstep, the determined cat who doesn't live here mewls her discontent
tomorrow, we must all hang with the world again.
the rhythms of learning and of labour upon us and over us
not without their satisfactions, yes, and yet -
tonight, we hover in the limen
made quiet by this crossing
watching the dreaming moon awaken.
- Kathy, 10/4/16
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