noon rested high
on the backs
of church bells and hayers

as the field
and its universe hummed
with golden heat.

it was easy to believe
that the crickets
would never fade

that anything lasting longer
than a bottle of iced tea
was eternal

the air was dressed
in the scent of rough grasses,
a many-tiered cake

and the hayers settled down
for a welcome siesta
under the bright canopy of august.

later they awoke
to find the day burning out
like the end of a cigarette

but even as they brushed loose hay
from sore arms,
working the kinks from tired backs,

even as their truck bumped home
in the soft glow
of a harvest moon

even now
as summer’s last embers rise into night
somewhere it is still noon.