Last days of summer—
 
the morning flood of birdsong
 
slows to a trickle.

 
 
 

Crows, doves, dragonflies—
 
on summer days these pilgrims
 
sanctify our yard.

 
 
 

First days of summer—
 
California hillsides blaze
 
with unholy fire.

 
 
 

Waning days of spring—
 
a surprise gift of coffee
 
arrives in the mail.

 
 
 

Cloudless May morning—
 
we mark the last days of spring,
 
longing for some rain.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
a few days after Easter
 
your first egg hatches.

 

 
 
 

Four days past Christmas
 
some California mountains
 
wear new coats of snow.

 
 
 

Three days past Christmas
 
I sharpen my secateurs
 
to prune the plum tree.

 
 
 

Two days past Christmas
 
I give thanks for farmworkers
 
pruning the grapevines.

 
 
 

In the crackling heat
 
even crickets keep silent—
 
summer’s waning days.