Meadow in August

bees with ragged wings

continue harvesting the thirsty tangle

make the ever longer flight between wildflowers

before the autumn bloom

thick brown grasses

unstitched thistles

swollen pods of milkweed

bend to touch the ground

downy seed-tufts scatter with each small wind

burrs cling to anything that passes

finches complain a few notes

in a momentary flight before

return to the acrobatics of eating

dark seeds on stems with fallen petals

green walnuts wait above the antlers

taking shape on chewing heads

you stand there

beneath your tilley hat

in the sun and ebb of

another season of ticks

wrapped in a permethrin cloth

admiring the late summer texture

you don't know the language

probably never will

but sense how every meadow dweller

and each life passing through

is listening to the words of every other

singing together an older song

whispering a common prayer

known this afternoon to all but you