Just the wind reeding through,
a token of the thunderstorm
in the tree tops, two thirds of the way up
an Arkansas mountain of maples

just starting to drop its first leaves,
August-dead arrows slung into the future,

which is now when I open the door
even if the rain is running sideways,
and the birdsong is hidden and present
at once in time’s infinite foliage.

Thunder hurts the horizon, I’m cold and wet
in a collapsed cloud blurring distinctions
between now and later, inside and outside,

but then something red breaks through:
a summer tanager singing fire.