in the morning august in the mourning

with her feet doubled in the water

gently the river clay grows heavy, 

for a song and the last fruit of the crop 

my basket overflowing; my collarbone

sloping and rushing to the ground 

yellowing and reddening and maddening 

into the freckles of the earth 

dying in the valley where 

the lake's bosom swells 

with the waning mountain bloom

the stars are colder tonight