This Is July

When I would see a girl, turn into a little mammal,
a small fox, and she would paw at her little ears
Right next to the black ash at precisely 11 am every morning.
I would observe from above, over peppered scrambled eggs and Stratego.
At some point, she would dash down a pathway
previously treaded by squirrels and the little monsters who live next door.
It was a string of negative space,
A parting of the shrubbery.

That’s what July is.
From a distance watching red fur getting blown about, perched on a dune
The textured brushwork of a living, breathing post-impressionistic canvas.
Watching a woman’s ears twitching in the wind
Married to a Lake Michigan blue.
I would kick back in my deck chair
Not bothering a thing,
and drink the rest of my orange juice
And remember how I don’t own time
And how that was such a shame.
Because that girl’s skin held onto every spec of sand
As if she had been dusted by gold.