1. The Last Days of Summer Before the First Frost

    Here at the wolf’s throat, at the egress of the howl,
    all along the avenue of deer-blink and salmon-kick
    where the spider lets its microphone down
    into the cave of the blackberry bush—earth echo,
    absence of the human voice—wait here
    with a bee on your wrist and a fly on your cheek,
    the tiny sun and tiny eclipse.
    It is time to be grateful for the breath
    of what you could crush without thought,
    a moth, a child’s love, your own life.
    There might never be another chance.
    How did you find me, the astonished mother says
    to her four-year-old boy who’d disappeared
    in the crowds at the music festival.
    I followed my heart, he shrugs,
    so matter-of-fact you might not see
    behind his words
    (o hover and feed, but not too long)

    the bee trails turning to ice as they’re flown.


    By Tim Bowling