August - Poem by Albert Ahearn
I need not a fine calendar
To identify the present month;
With all its entire splendor
Will not be found on a twelvemonth.
If one lives in tune with nature
There are always some clues at hand:
Like a hound on a fox’s spoor
Indications he understands.
A rivers edge recedes and slows
The pear trees host the birds and bees
Catnip begins to decompose
And acorns fall from large oak trees.
Countless hints a man can trust
The four above claim its August.
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