end of summer

by Nicholas Castine

Dandelion-tufts drift above a hedgerow

of wind-slumped-stems

and blackened heads that hang

like lampposts in an ashen city.

Oak-leaves tumble

like pamphlets and spent shells.

We walked this trail before: Father, Mother,

Dog, and Girl.

Girl paid dog with a carrying-stick

for carving a path through the budding weedfield.

Dog found a dried toad

And dropped it at our feet.

We told Girl: life circles —

seed to stem, stem to flower, flower to tuft —

egg to tadpole, legless to legged, animate to soil.

The world has been bent by silence.

An oak-shaped breeze folds

over the treeline, warning the birds of winter.

On the other side of the field, a white-tailed buck rests

his chin on the matted crown of a starving fawn.

The forest has been picked

clean of acorns, mushrooms, and chestnuts.

In scorched grass, Girl turns — searching, knee-deep;

not a dandelion to blow.

Photo of Nick Castine

BIO: Nicholas Castine is a poet whose work focuses on family, nature, and the strange. He is currently working on a chapbook of poetry and microfiction. When he’s not struggling against the English language, he enjoys travel, hiking, and playing with his daughter. His work has previously appeared in 50-Word Stories and MacQueen’s Quinterly.