In the morning before the sun is up,
when the cloud deck makes the light go soft and pale,
the grass is the color of straw
dried-out and sharp,
golden red.

The lawn sprinklers wake spitting and cussing,
and the first anglers at the lake are silent
and still, standing above their lines.

Some birds are out peeping and collecting
like me:
here, last month’s blackberries
that started out green fists
are now Royal-blue.

Summer loafs all day on its sofa
not knowing one commitment,
not thinking it will ever
have to leave.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: nature poetry, pacific northwest, poem, poetry, summer, summer poetry, William Pearse writer