The somnolent sun tosses amber light
To the twisty trees flush with rich, green leaves,
That saunter to the light as if they were
Snagging a lazy fly ball. Water flows
Weakly under an indifferent breeze
That feels as if it had just awoken
From an afternoon nap. In a few months
These images will vanish as the sun
Becomes a useless ball, a heartless joke,
The trees stripped raw, the leaves a sad carpet,
The water suspended in time, the breeze,
Mad with tense wakefulness, will change its name.
Huddling by fires, we will damn cold winter
And long for warm nights of idle freedom.