When the orioles are gone
it will be as if they were stolen—
the hooded flash of sunrise colors
through the air above the meadow, 
the clucking in the honey bush–
so utterly gone I’ll have 
a wild desire to follow flowers 
south. But I can’t live on nectar, 
and anyway summer is sweetest 
when it ends in fruit. For now,
the swallowtail butterflies 
still ply the Nile lilies.
The heat lingers late, distills 
the day into a rich blue evening. 
And there are orioles, 
luminous with all we know, 
like the silence that lies 
behind all things.