September first is rotting, overripe summer:
You viewed it solitarily; you with your raw breath,
Slicked and sliding back muscles. Then, some death—
A phenomenal quiet, I mumble
To just the stock-still cow, dressed in umber.
She too is sewn up tightly into the landscape,
All glued and sealed to her bony nape!—
Along with quail, deer, fire ant in some number.
At any rate, we continue on the rockslide
Trail, both hushed. My feet loose up some dirt,
And you trip, stumbling behind me; you lurch
With flapped-open mouth, catching dry
Air, moving silently. Ahead, the sky
Is a bright slate.
There is dust over both of us.