End of Summer Blues

The call of a jay rings plaintive in late August.

Has the fight gone out of that blue scrapper?

And where are its brethren of a feather?

Why don’t they echo the attack?

How to put back the prickly fight

into those brash wardens of the garden,

and chase cool tranquility from the yard?

Cicadas and crickets pick up the slack

in the soundtrack of shorter days.
A dog does its part with distant barks.

Yes, the creatures of summer’s idyll recede.

There sounds a chirp still, and a tweet,

but the birds are no longer at hand.

Come back, my mad blue angels.

Stay a while, summer.