You are getting old. The crickets are singing away your last full night. Cradled in the lap of summer, your days are too soon gone. Our little grandchildren ran barefoot in all your weeks. If they wore shoes in your few chilly mornings, they were soon kicked aside.
Clouds laughed across your sky and the sun blazed from it. In your days, the chattering of purple martins and barn swallows quieted as they took to the sky for migration to a land where heat like yours never goes away. But bluebirds linger with us, coming for a drink at my birdbath.
Glads bloomed and hummingbirds zoo...