Late June

Something is wrong:
no crickets saw into the night,
no toads hum in the crabgrass.
The coyotes have given in
to the low moans of cows
and freights. The owls
are silent. The moon hangs
in the hutch like a dinnerplate,
blue and Dutch. Bone china
breaks in the house next door.
The lights are out and in
this fat shattered pause,
without voice, without rain,
the cherries, sour on the limb,
are left — largely unravaged.

I am certain, the loons up north,
have some vague knowledge of this.

Image: Karim MANJRA on Unsplash