the Wind sweeps the streets clean of Life
littered and fallen,
browned to a crisp by the
forgotten august heat.
The trees will us inside, waving and whispering, warning of a storm. 

The greenest cling to the boughs
which will release them
soon and softly. 
An act of birth through death,
growth through loss —
they’ll never come to shade
the life they bear. 

The sail and scourge of modernity:
the everlasting preserver — 
the undead are not
made of rotting flesh —
No, the apocalyptic predators are
born of bagged plastic.

Strangers on streetcorners 
collecting hats and hair,
wind-blown and blustery, unprepared —
a moment of absurdity
kindly shared in the
laughter of living
as humans in
a city.