Summer is skibbling away.
All her tiny green grasshoppers hide like seeds on the ground,
invisible until they leap forward
or land on your arm,
and you can’t help but wonder
how they got here
and where they will arrive to finally –
probably the gullet of that bird
so prettily singing to others:
“Stay out of my field, leave the tender
grasshoppers I am keeping for myself
and my kin.  These right here
belong to me until winter’s sun
is rising, and I have moved on.”