season of helicopters

Farming, I watch the seasons
the golden light of evening
comes earlier each day

The song of the white throats
marks the beat to spring
the flutter of monarchs
touches early fall

I see when the first mulberries ripen
and when the last maple leaf falls

now it is the season of the helicopters
they buzz overhead with threatening insistency
like some plague of locusts

I am ready for this season to pass
for the helicopters' hum to be overtaken
yet again
by the dragonflies

smoke and pear trees

I wonder sometimes
as the helicopters buzz overhead
and a half mile away the night air is filled with smoke and anger
if seeding cover crop and pear trees
here
can change anything

Storms

I awake and find my cheeks wet
subtropical hot tears
like the storm on the solstice
you can see it coming on the radar
but the first gust still catches you off guard

islands apart

On the dock, like an island
apart from the outside world

we can whisper our truths
as the sun slowly burns our backs

and you sit
a baby with a full diaper in your lap
without complaint

and tell of following improbabilities
the sixth sense we cannot grasp
but can only sometimes touch

how they brought you here
to this sun-glinting moment of summer
watching me belly flop into the pond