Why does it smell like Fall at the end of July?
Are there ghosts in the gingko trees, combing out the last bits of summer?
Has August come and gone, scattering her glow on the tip of a match?
Missed the eclipse, but I hear the sound of the boxcars on Damen Avenue, the whistle in the night, a rumble of light through trees in the open window. A long yesterday ago.
Summer night -- no stars -- only the light from the toy shop where they are working late.