On Midsummer’s Eve

Ride the swing season
hawk gander or stallion
evading the light
you survive
lost
among the stiff trees
laying rebellious eggs
that roll and splatter
in your enemy sun.

your arrows rot
in a muddy quiver
while the quick vowels
flutter and plummet
through stiff trees without echo
you do not fly.
you do not fly.

Your words explode
under silence
returning
to rot
in the changing season
I ride with the sun
passing
returning again
and again
you do not learn
you do not learn.