Midsummer lies on this town
like a plague： locusts now replaced
by humidity， the bloodied Nile
now an algae-covered rivulet
struggling to find its terminus.
Our choice is a simple one：
to leave or to remain， to render
the Spanish moss a memory
or to pull it from trees， repeatedly.
And this must be what the young
philosopher felt， the pull of a dialectic so basic
the mind refuses， normally，
to take much notice of it.
Outside， beyond a palm-tree fence，
a flock of ibis mounts the air，
our concerns ignored
by their quick white wings.
Feathered flashes reflected in water，
the bending necks of the cattails：
the landscape feels nothing——
it repeats itself with or without us.