On Tuesday grasshoppers,
clicking yellow brown in hot sun.
Longest swim of the season that evening,
this shallow sandy rim of the continent’s deepest lake
cool silk on my skin.
Wednesday a 25 knot northerly with cold rain,
pounding take-offs and touchdowns,
long V’s of geese riding the cold front south,
that rare thin layer of warm water pushed offshore and gone.
Thursday a scouting flight northeast
to the upper Baillie River.
Caribou there, drifting down from the coast,
crossing the border from Nunavut.
As if a border, or a map,
means anything to them.
All that matters to them,
to the grasshoppers and the geese,
and to me, just now,
is that summer is ending.