Juncture

It is the middle of the year
and we are waiting for the first
ripe fig of summer. We are waiting
for stalks of yucca to point 
the way toward a sky hiding 
blunt edges of rain. We are waiting  
for a pause in the air, that hour
between the golden-leaved 
light of afternoon and the moment
the blue-black shade unrolls. 
We are waiting for the matchstick-
struck lights of fireflies to radio
the location of stones, to signal
that it is time to draw one more
oracle card—here is a bee
and here is a hummingbird;
and here is a cormorant 
with a fish in his mouth, larger 
than he could swallow.