July

The single juniper spearing through
the crest meadow: from our road today
it drifted the ramrod poise of a bodyguard
on the running board of a black limo.
Three goldfinches pulse and dip into the pin oak.
Already the evenings grow shorter.
A heli hammers past, its rotors winding in tackle,
its cadmium eye bleary wet.
The giant must have returned home by now.
Where did I put my knife?
Tulip, oak, maple, hickory: nothing moves.