Morning, overcast, insistent doves.
A bright gray, an unsettled wind

saying soon this will all
blow over.  The lake houses

all full this weekend, bits
of chatter from other

porches, I mean,
it is what it is—

or nearer to home
the silent neighbor,

surveying his swaying
grape vines

.

Our grapes are dusky-hued,
small beads, the birds

aren’t even interested yet,
the basil deep green

and starting to bolt–
expectations

a difficult thing.
Still, the pepper

flowers haven’t dropped
yet, blue sky in the North–

the whole neighborhood
starts walking the loop

before the heat starts,
breathless fragments

rising over the hill:
When she’s in town

she keeps us pretty busy;
I felt kind of bad, because, you know…

I keep remembering Holly–
how the old dog

would have barked,
even near the end,

and has it been
a year, or two?

.

A strange thing
this newly-felt

denominator,
present over past,

a boat at anchor
on the lake–

you don’t feel
the drifting much then

but look how far
we’ve come