Indian Summer
A glass half-full of August pours its gold
on autumn's copper turning it to bronze.
The brittle Santa Ana gusts unfold
to rattle omens hidden in the fronds
that burst from trunks up high like absinthe flame
and singe October's turquoise-matted sky.
Each puff of smoke that dormant clouds became
has disappeared from desert's opal eye
as amber winds come shrieking from the east,
igniting saffron plumes among the brush
like raptor birds of paradise, a beast
awakened from a summer's verdant hush.
The crows in flight are ashes on the air
that scatter in the sunlight's molten glare.
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