A sudden smell of wet whips around
the tower of elms, across the flap of maples
to settle around us, almost solemnly, near the back steps.
We bend over in work,
but look up at the abrupt hush
from the swell of the cicadas.
A south wind blows a bumble of storm in.
Even the larger leaves turn over,
flipping into camouflage to hide in plain sight
from the pat and the pitter of what sounds
like the first drips of an open faucet.
We turn the ice cream crank over
as rock salt crunches
against the cut of blade.
Just in time, you said,
swirling the cream and scraping a bent spoon
up one side to catch a piece of pulp.
Quickly we dip out a cone of fresh peach,
and step through the open screen door,
and watch the slope of the backyard
run like a river.
© Susan Muse, 2011
|Maple seeds in the rain; photo by Tony Russell|