of nearly three-months-
worth of memories
seem to alight
and shine for one moment
on August's dustiest surfaces
before sinking beneath them
and into the soil,
where avaricious weeds—
though outwardly
enthusiastic as ever
for moisture—
have nonetheless slowed
down the pace
of their growth,
as if each one was
privately shaken
in its faith
by the sudden appearance
of just one
yellowed leaf.
Nearby, in this earlier,
heavier breed of shade,
sparrows chortle
for reasons which none
of the weeds can know, and
not even they can remember.
