Late August

Willows of late summer when you
start to shed your turned colors
I remember already
the light soaked rooms
and windows flung open
where Prajna sprawls on her well-warmed paws.

Last night I heard an owl hoot.
With certainty I pulled out his threnody
from the drone of cicadas
and broken ripple of crickets
while we sat around the bonfire
S'mores held aloft in the cool grove of evergreens
with the light and smoke in our eyes.