Marianne Szlyk writes

The Summer After the Bridge Closed

In the absence of lawn mowers, the sparrow’s
song flows down slate tiles,
over brick walls and wooden window sills
to the rocks at island’s edge.

Fat black crows strut down
quiet streets, across matted grass.
Without hawks or humans,
crows have no need to fly.

Waves crash onto smaller stones
that gather next to the rocks.
The ocean’s fingers crumble
the beach as if it were a cracker.

For now, starlings emerge
from rhododendrons and boxwoods. 
The birds’ notes replace the rain
during this dry summer. 

The grass is greener. Clover
mingles with chicory and milkweed.
Long grass sways in the wind.
It flowers. 

 

 Rainbow -- Grandma Moses