Here

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The here-ness of a thing
as it gathers late light,
oak leaves clumping green
against the slipping sky,
branches crusted thick with bark,
me now at summer's end,
eyes gleaning sun soaked fact,
stocking up for winter:
painful ripeness of a peach;
killdeer glinting white and tan and black
carving arcs across the switch;
horse flanks slick with lather,
hooves pawing at the edge of autumn,
nostrils working at the coming chill;
and tomorrow, little Max,
three years old, lives next door,
sisters heading off to school,
tilting on the topmost step,
blond mop head spilling morning light,
shouting down, Wait for me!