Summer springs, — an osprey dive,
dead-aimed, stream-lined, heated high –
at least for those beyond the shores,
whose youth sprang many years before.
Reflex tells us prowl and hunt.
Expectation. Daily grunt.
We hoaries fail to read the wind –
A call to peaceful, soulful mend
that languid summer breezes send.
Within the monuments of age,
our humid, foggy, maze-y days,
glint memories once turned our tails —
first leap to flight! that siren wail!
a perfect catch upon the swale.
Bring them! Break all surface ails!
Dear youth, this summer, let us sail.
Michele McFarland 