August Moon

Down at the crossing, under
an orange August moon, I hear them —
the drums, the chains, the train.
And someone is dragging a barrel
through the square as freights
snipe at their couplings. All that,
and the silence of toads. All that,
and the cage shadows of milkweed,
thistle, trees as a black dog slinks
through the grass. There are more
worrisome things afoot soon,
soon after coffee. For now though,
I wonder about the drums
down at the crossing under
an orange August moon.
I wonder about the code
howled from the motorman’s
hand. More so, I worry
for the small things — toads,
crickets and such, huddled
and wary, silent in the grass.
More so for those that sleep
through it all, dreaming.

Image: Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash