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It is so dry now, my desiccated friend

spits in the bowl of his pipe before applying

flame to its bitter balm, for some kind of balance.



We tread on rustling mulch to study rustling leaves,

folded in desperate prayer, of what will surely be,

still, next year, an orchard and a kitchen garden



if -- large if -- the well does not run dry.

Everywhere flit wasps, sipping at beetles'
 abdomens,
having small aphids for dessert.



The birds have capped their singing, panting in

small shade. "Ninety, ninety, ninety-three and ninety,

ninety-seven today, and ninety yet



for all the week ahead, with this drying wind.

Don't you think things are getting out of hand?"


I ask him. He blows a little rueful smoke


but makes no answer. I anyway know from long

acquaintance his position: "there is a law,


and you and I and all these aching things


can never break it." It's that second law

of course, the one that is the silence heard


after all laughter, after songs and tears.


Soon the moon will rise, grand but red,

dressed in soot from a dozen cackling fires.