A windmill spins backwards

to September sneaking in through a gap in the fence

Sounds of the cemetery drift over the back wall in low flung trails of criss-crossing planes

Bees go about their business

Ants march not to war

Nor to the hollows of low hung chimes, sighs on the wind’s breath

Birds words on a whim

of leaves and shadows

Lattices lacing spaces in-between, too late to twine and scent

Too changing to stay.