The Defeat of Summer

The Defeat of Summer

The silver lining has fallen from

sullen clouds hanging

lazily

over the pond behind our house.

The snapping turtles sunning

in the open sky, mouths agape

and luring, ready to snap a leg

or stick in

two pieces.

Our canoe, whose hull has rotted,

rests gently on the bank,

muddy water lapping against it.

The quiet lick of wetness teasing

the faded red bodice, ever so slowly

drawing it back to the recesses of

home.

The seasoned chirp of the bullfrog

serenade, lulling the eco--

system

toward the slow-paced life

necessary for such a place. Sediment

drifts to the bottom and then

between children’s toes and through

the cracks.

Their bodies tinged brown by summer days

converge at the surface, wary of the

depths below. The lone catfish,

rumored to be thirty pounds,

lurking, waiting for tender morsels

the shape

of metatarsals.

Soon, the days will grow slow

and chariots the color of mustard will

appear

to shuttle their laughter

leaving our pond in silence. The

snapping turtles will nestle into the mud,

fabled catfish disappearing further

into darkness, whispering he

will return.

The croak of the bullfrog

throaty and deep, rumbling will signal

the departure of warm afternoons.

It is only when small bodies return,

goose-pimples clothing them

in a patterned flesh suite,

that it truly ends. Leaving

in its wake

autumn.