A loud truck
comes up the hill
into the neighborhood.
Brakes hiss
and screech.
Something is getting
fixed,
the sounds last
too long to be
a delivery.
An August breeze,
a near miracle,
I hear the wind
chimes which
I rarely hear.
A fly hangs out
on my forearm,
my back yard plants,
a bitter green,
the yucca is in
bloom,
making the landscape,
for the moment,
worthwhile.

8/22/02