In August

FROM the great trees the locusts cry

In quavering ecstatic duo--a boy

Shouts a wild call--a mourning dove

In the blue distance sobs--the wind

Wanders by, heavy with odors

Of corn and wheat and melon vines;

The trees tremble with delirious joy as the breeze

Greets them, one by one--now the oak

Now the great sycamore, now the elm.

And the locusts in brazen chorus, cry

Like stricken things, and the ring-dove's note

Sobs on in the dim distance.

Hamlin Garland

Photo courtesy http://hightowerreport.com.