August's Edge

a new poem

August’s Edge

Cloud-high pines 
at the river’s lip 
reflect against 
black water; 
trunks blurred 
by invisible 
currents. I sit 
at a table, gray
wood chipped 
with initials
and listen 
to Gregorian chant 
through headphones: 
syllables 
sculpting air 
into a shape 
that resembles time. 
A shape held 
in mind 
and turning 
like a diamond 
before the inner-eye. 
I sit and listen;
I disintegrate 
into the patterns 
in a field
wild after a day of rain
and how long
now, the heat.