full moon feeling close —
the moth we somehow let in
prefers to stay

driving west —
searing sun seeming to die
as it falls

morning puddles —
full to the brim with rain
I slept right through

goldfinches in fall —
knowing we'll all change our song
when the rain returns

now is the season
of small yellow butterflies —
adjusting our focus

Labor Day weekend  —
I flick the alarm button
to "off"

he tells us about
goldfinches in the garden  —
they fly as we look

rocks basking in sun
where the creek bed once was —
who cast this dry spell?

warm summer air
lifting the circling hawk —
small sliver of moon