The Sept. Set

September;
slow house flies getting dumber,
window box peas just a brown
string strung along an open door with no screen.

Beyond the fence
a foghorn taunts the end
of summer, last squeals before school
trill the beach.

Our bluff curls the blue bay, harbor town houses
honeycomb the cliff, the slightly northern sunset
a gem for their windows, the reflection,
an odd gold for the just passing by.

Tourists and townies,
gulls and cormorants,
at night buoys, boats, and God
the only ones catching the breaking
waves.

What you find in the sand
comes home in pant cuffs,
what you leave on the beach,
makes for loon tunes.