Intermission

After a hard rain, one
tree limb shattering through
the windshield of a parked car.

A humid haze not yet lifted
from the ground, clumps
of trampled fern.

We thread our way as if
the dogs of evening were not
already pulling at the leash,

as if autumn’s early telegrams,
yellow as goldenrod, were not
already here.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.