Return of the Prodigal
Now comes summer, water clear, clouds heaving with weeping.
Tall grasses are silver-veined.
Little puddles of sunlight collect
in the low places deep in the woods.
Lupine and paintbrush stoic in the ditch weed,
larch rust a smear on the mountainside.
No light on the ridgeline.
Zodiac pinwheels across the heavens,
bat feint under Gemini.