The look of the San Gabriels says nothing
about what season, since there was still snow
capping the peaks in the east until June.
The moon creeps slowly out at different hours
every night, just like expected,
just like we learned in school.
He made the moon for our seasons,
the scriptures say, so we count
by moon until things are right again;
until we go outside and play in the water,
do so truly, without nostalgia,
but because it is hot and will be hot tomorrow;
until the heavenly bodies shift
those peaks, Mons Agnes, Mons
Vitruvius – and that man’s sparrow keeps singing –
points us to the summer, when the sky clears daily
to give us a look at those deep shadows, deeper
and farther away than anything we got into this summer,
as we wait for the world to tilt back, righting itself.