There are six hundred and eleven shades of green this summer,
twelve in the cornfield alone, depending on the time of day.
Tonight I followed the acorn-shaped tracks of a deer
between those narrow rows, the coarse leaves eager
to serrate my edges.
Through milkweed, wild carrot and tired goldenrod I wavered,
then surprised the white-tail in the short grass at the side of the road.
It waved its long flag, leapt up and ran
away, like summer.
Tomorrow when I move to the city
it will still be August,
the sunset will, like today, arch like an eyebrow,
pink with surprise.
Again the moon should rise orange,
muffling that deers wet dirt clover footsteps.
But
will I have lost this green,
this eye?
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