This is the screaming of the season,
the full bloom of the sun
on the sky’s stem.
The crickets creak their ratchet song
in the swollen plush
of the bushes and the roaring forest.
In a moment of reflection
we feel regression set in
and the gradual browning around the edges
of the hedges.
Here comes the howling of the season,
the wounded animal cry
and the lazy deathly sigh
of the leaves on the street.
They cry for their lives to be saved
lying in paved mass graves.