Every September they reappear

for a week or so, before summer

truly ends. They dart by

with a measured recklessness.

Green, yellow-green,

and small as birch leaves,

Cape Mays or Magnolias

never fail to keep me

of two minds about the world,

looking up as much as down.

I've followed the crooked line

they take high into trees,

tucking themselves into shade,

and seen clusters of grapes

hanging so naturally at that height

you'd think they'd grown

by some human arrangement.

But it's a lifetime since farm people

made a home here and maybe

marked a place to grow fruit

and watch birds.

Still those grapes keep hanging on,

bringing warblers in by the bushel,

as if someone knew it could always be.

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