Eldest man-child calls for me to come see the gleaning, threshers coming behind. He knew I’d need to see.
The heavy breasts, the long necks, arched, and the sway, gold ball setting gold over stillness… the occasional lone cry … it all lulls, choreographed.
Till last light I’m held by sharp pleasure of summer’s last.
Glean her before she flies.
May you harvest last of summer before the flocks trumpet fall and carry her off to the skies….
All’s grace,
Photos: feeding on last of summer
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