starlit sky . . .
       cicadas’ keening sounds
              surround us

the cat
right where I left him
haloed moon

cicada dusk —
trouble in the sound
of my mother’s voice

leaves turning
she still smiles when she sees me
after all these years

barbed wire
sagging under its load
of bare vines

new wine
adobe walls
in shadow

moon moth . . .
infant fingers brush
the breast

the hush
after starlings lift
autumn sun

sweetness
oozing from a fig
indian summer

the first bare trees
a flock of blackbirds
turns back the clock