I watch a cloud of dust churned up by someone driving
On a dirt road on the riverside. I listen for cicadas
Rasping, feast my eyes, so soon to suffer, on the trees,
The clotted leaves, still green. I know that they will
Turn and fall, and life will lose its luster. Though it's
Not like me, or almost anyone, to shift my focus from
The future, plans to do what must be done, today,
I work to see the present, gobble it like someone starving,
Because I am dreading finding that it's gone away.