summer afternoon:
a raven and its shadow
weaving through the treetops

garden trail
my comings and goings
have worn a groove

first cicada
I fold away
the blankets

cherry tomatoes
cradled in my hands
August heat

sunlight
grazes my fingers —
the first ripe peach

sculpture garden
roots of the strangler fig
create their own forms

the lake’s reflection
goes all the way out the limb
summer solitude

stirring wheat . . .
the faint sound
of an ancient sea

placid lake —
the sound of bike wheels
on the gravel path

roadside stall —
in a tomato box
the “trust” coins