hung over the fog like skunk juice,
mulberries heavy and thick,
ripening into black, its leaves
browning to the death hues of autumn.
What was left was left,
what remained began to smell,
everywhere an ending for one species
and a feast for another.
We refused what was in front of us,
pushed back from the table full
and never noticed the drought over the mountain–
it did not pertain to where we were,
water deep and easily cleaned,
the stores full of themselves:
money meant nothing
when it no longer mattered.
summer ended before its time,
we watched it drain itself clear,
bided our time like fugitives,
and wandered into the spray.