Clouds drift low,
over dying embers of
last night’s fires
and
quite suddenly
Summer is over,.
Our dreams all spent,
the pools, now covered
with their shrouds
while fog horns sound
off in the distance like
some grieving orchestra
set free to float out to sea
by michevious children
also gone now; their
small footprints as ghosts
of what was.
September
turns down the dance one last time
sobering
those
unfamiliar
with sudden endings
and those scattered
farewells shouted from
parking lots
already sparse
as blankets leave beaches
and jackets are thrown on.
Paper napkins roll ahead
as hot dog stands close up
and market lights are
clicked off as shadows
lengthen deep into September.
As exhausts are revved
into blue black smoke
the last summer drag race
ensues as someone tunes
a guitar one last time.
Notes from the Traveler's Camp 