From the north, wind clears
the laze of summer, seaweed
collects on the windward shore
and squishes cold under bare feet.
On the horizon across the sound,
Victorian hotels emerge as small,
white vacancies.

Oh, there’s still prance
in the dog’s step, peaches
plump and drizzle, and corn
carries sweetness from the farm.

But the porch door is closed,
morning’s swim relents to a fire
at night, and once again yellow buses
scoop kids from the curb.
It’s the month of the great fight
which summer always loses.