A Modest Little Poem About September

Sweet September

These days are clear and quiet,

Trees beginning to turn, slowly,

Toward something new.

Mornings the birds are quiet

And I hear the occasional squawk of crows and blue jays,

Not so much the sweet tune of cardinals.

Afternoons the skies are blue, the wind still,

The Big Lake preternaturally calm,

Cicadas singing their end-of-summer songs.

Night, ah the nights are so sweet,

With the great rhythmic concert of crickets—

It lulls me to sleep, nature’s mantra, litany, rosary,

My windows open, the cool night air seeping in,

Me dreaming about auroras.

Bob Coughlin / September 14, 2017