The Fourth of August

poems from the north, day 1

In my parent’s garden in Philadelphia — photo, my own

Crickets have been replaced
by locusts, trumpeting
possibility.

A new day.

I try to pick up
their conversation
while air conditioners

drone on
and a distant chime
tingles with each gasp

of breeze.
All singing this song
of summer in the city

that I know by heart.
But I’m not ready.
I want to linger

in the echo of wings
that rise and fall from one
in the west to one

in the east and consider
what note that is,
and revel in this seed

of silence
that’s found a seat
in my front row.