Midsummer lies on this town

    like a plague： locusts¹ now replaced

    by humidity， the bloodied² Nile

    now an algae-covered rivulet³

    struggling to find its terminus.

    Our choice is a simple one：

    to leave or to remain， to render

    the Spanish moss⁴ a memory

    or to pull it from trees， repeatedly.

    And this must be what the young

    philosopher felt， the pull of a dialectic so basic

    the mind refuses， normally，

    to take much notice of it.

    Outside， beyond a palm-tree fence，

    a flock of ibis mounts the air，

    our concerns ignored

    by their quick white wings.

    Feathered flashes reflected in water，

    the bending necks of the cattails：

    the landscape feels nothing——

    it repeats itself with or without us.