by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a time
when the smell
of sweetgrass
hangs heavy
in the ear
of summer,
when light lingers long
in the night,
and we let go of
what is not right in the world,
when we drift
across the tall grasses
to where fireflies
are whispering
to each other.
In this small pocket
of summer,
the deer
have finally
let themselves
be seen.
fourwindowspress 