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The Summer
The birds keep to their routines.
The big cottonwood glitters.
In the approaching heat
of the middle of the day
the elm makes little movements
now and then, like a dozing horse.
And on a distant county road
the sun bangs for an instant
on a windshield, fl ashing
like a signal; no reply.
A big butterfl y, strongly
constructed, yellow with black
ribbing and trim, works the air
between the house and trees,
disappearing from time to time
around the corner of the house
or inside one of the trees,
reappearing abruptly.
I come out after breakfast
every day, and sit writing
in the morning shade. Clear hours!
Butterfl y's in the foreground
frequently; tall dusty weeds
by the road; small house, trees, fi elds,
in the middle distance; then
the pale, vapory mountains.