Red-dusted leaves flicker
like clusters of small fires
crackling against a denim sky.
Early rains have turned
brown summer grass green,
each blade crowned with dew.

Days are bountiful with spiders
orb-stitching in every vacant arc;
in bare angles between post and rail
they’ve staked a plot of real estate
for themselves and progeny.
Even the porch broom propped
against the potting shelf tethers
a glistening web and in its center
an eight-legged guardian waits.

Our neighbor’s horses, hidden
behind a blind of conifers,
stamp restless hooves and blow
nostril air to soothe themselves.
A deep quiet abides,
a deep breathing in and out—
time’s at work, changing
gold to brown, warm to cold,
light to dark, leading us
to its kindly tent of rest.


© by Diane Stone.
Used with the author’s permission.