Priscilla Van Valkenburgh

September

Sunday morning, no noisy lobster boats. The clear September air is minting sun pennies on the sea in front of the Duck Island Lighthouse. Nothing moving but a breeze rustling the leaves of the popples and maples, and sending the spruces into a whooshing lean. No silent sails, no summer people's distant dogs barking, no long waiting lines for the ferry. Strangely enough, just the ravens complaining, always the ravens. The dragonflies are almost gone, the bees are in full force. We are one of the last holdouts on the last perfect days before the harsh Maine winter.


red geraniums—
gleaning the dwindling nectar
the orange monarch