Time for them is only light through their eyelids.
Before they fully awake
they are chasing across the lawn of the inn.
It’s 5:30 a.m.
We hear their fur
against our grass-level window glass.
They brush against our lives.
The mother has placed dead moles like Easter eggs
around the grass, and they practice hunting,
flinging gray bodies like toys, nosing
them into the air. Death is play.
Extravagant, the mother’s tail is like the collars of coats
she has no knowledge of.
Adam and Matt reflect on Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in front of a live audience at the Alamo Draft House in Austin, Texas.
Needed: a ritual for clipping the last basil
for the last batch of pesto
for inhaling that final blast of slower days
as the blender grinds
like last rites for the summer
here in the middle of September
something to comfort us
amid this rigid schedule
and the last ripe tomato
lingering on the windowsill
something to remind us
all this homework will come to an end