Erasing Myself from the Yard at Twilight

Strong pump of summer pulling its last prime,

the moon has rearranged its face.

We enter changed time.

Concealed in the beech’s shadow, I watch

jimson weed open its lavender trumpet

for the sphinx moth

whose black and white stripes

disappear into night bloom.

A sigh of lemon balm ripples past

the pin-cherry tree,

past humming birds,

in their roar of green fire—

In gathering dusk

tree swallows dive, iridescent,

harvest their evening meal.

One last declaration, the phoebe

packs up her language

and departs.