A hot dry wind over blades gone brown,
and the tufts of green singing harmony.
They whisper their song for the passionate few
that learn to listen beyond themselves.

One lone cicada, in the midst of the city,
crying out over the traffic and turmoil,
lazily spinning his tireless song
of life, of purpose, of days gone by.

Coyote wail, forlorn and shrill,
over hills still sharing a memory of warmth
from the blaze of the noonday sun,
returning just a few hours hence

A million voices, or more…
no list can contain them all,
nor can many be said to be living…
Summer Sirens – all sing the same song.

The whine and buzz of an AC compressor;
a scolding jay in the shade of a hedge;
drops of sweat from an old man’s brow;
the giggles of children at the park.

The suck and splash of a poolside filter;
the roar of a mower, racing the sun;
the gentle groaning of trees in full sway,
rejoicing o’er a rare morning breeze.

…and off in the distance,
though many miles away,
I can hear my heart dancing in the waves 

There has to be a way…

to live in a land
where the song never ends. 

Would that I live to see the day.

Before the cold settles in
to frozen bones, gone brittle
in mourning for the mornings
of warmer days.