The boatload of Libyan refugees
who had hoped to escape merciless slaughter
were drowned, perhaps on purpose
—eighteen year-olds
desperately fleeing to live. 

Dawn revealed
their bodies, floating apart, stiff arms reaching
on the reliable tide, the previous day’s screams
replaced by a sky full of excited gulls.

I turn off the TV, go outside
start sweeping leaves from the deck
layered six inches thick
crisp as potato chips.
Heavy rains this spring, double the average
caused a mold so the oak leaves
are dropping early, stressing the trees
to put out a second wave of leaves in one season.
 
Barely August, the black oaks
are releasing a slow-motion fountain of leaves
showering shadows over a meadow of wild peas
pods twist open
a fusillade of seeds
crackles like a wicker chair
as if the wary rear end of a favorite aunt
were settling into it. Indeed it is hot
and we all know it is hotter than it should be.
Please bring mother earth a glass of iced tea.
 
Watering the deck plants
I surprise a little frog
that spurts from the fern
sticks to the wall, terrified,
hoping he’s not seen,
depending on human tenderness.
  
A truant breeze
ripples through the wind chimes.
Those refugees’ cries, strangled by water,
subsided in the sparkling sea. 
 
The little frog is hiding
in stillness, in plain sight
against the wall. 
Neither of us is kidding himself.