Late August

I feel the chill of the Birth Month that kills the season of the drop top meanders in firefly fields, rhythmic beating of bugs against flesh, soaking golds and sparkling reds a richer filter, an exquisite endlessness that terrifies in the permafrost, but stirs a chorus in the vibrato of the cicadas, a crescendo rustling through the cattails that arc over the banks, like a dome in this sphere of the unkempt and the sacred, the spontaneity we choreograph- is this forever, or is it finally September?