Six late-August evenings (2)
I heard the earth breathing through its lungs the trees.
Outside the beasts of habit prowled back and forth.
But we are all beasts on another’s street.
Inside, we are the small shadows of the trees,
Doing their opposite, breathing in what they exhale
As the earth breathes in our every word,
Translating each into half a hand of shade above us.
When dawn breaks, the sidewalk is empty.
A newspaper lays on its side by the butterfly bush,
Condensation misting words within the plastic bag,
The beasts of habit are nowhere to be seen
But the grass, wet and flattened as if from a struggle.
The headline says that the words
Had just fallen during the night
From the future