Harbingers

A hot wind stirs the briefest of rains – 
                                      not water, but
pocked, yellow light catchers,
whorling shards of captured sunrays,
too spent from heat to hang on until
weather cools, days contract,
but not so far gone they don't
have work to do, 
               still.

They are loosed from the hickory 
               choir, where
they sang out breath to the world.
But their release lies ahead still,
a slow leakage of stored sunlight
into soil, to nourish next year's 
crop of choraliers and thus fail
to expire fully, ever.

               Still.

I know all this, and yet I find it
               unsettling,
this wind that carries the song of 
things to come. It is too early for 
this, I whisper, even as spinning
chips of gold dazzle my eyes. I 
want summer's stillness 
to stay, well, 
                still.