such a feeling of completion

when the meadow returns

in a froth of white lace

above yellows and purple pinks

blues and tender greens

scars of haymaking washed away

in the flowing tide of vegetation

hay bales slump

rooted by climbing tendrils

of more growth

spring is not yet done

with the furious pumping of the life force

slower but still potent

the meadow rises

to meet the sunfall

heat pulses and bakes

dries the coaxed grasses

kindles fireflowers

an oriole refuses to sing

but squawks in complaint

and summer twilight fading

the imperceptible transformation

of the distant whooping of children

to the fluttering hooting

of the first owls