Tricia Knoll

August Night I Sang the Twilight

Does it get any sweeter than a sunset smear of peaches west over the Adirondacks, those gray slumped whales in a blue mist? Roaming the space beyond where Lake Champlain fills in with a blue, the color we once named baby. The car window is open to free up the unchallenging but sufficiently peppy tune from the local radio station, a song I do not expect to ever hear again louder than the tire whine crooning through farm road curves. The fields hayed once this summer, green up again after two inches of rain last night. Milkweed pink, goldenrod yellow. Stand ups of chicory. On my lips the memory of a maple creemie from the window at the burger place. On my passenger seat, a quart of just-picked blueberries to be a pie for family coming to the birthing of a grandson.

sultry and humid
end of day
humming