The Deconstruction of "Summer"

Beneath the richly layered river hills,

twilight flows along the valley deep,

an inky parallel to the river’s water.

I lie against a rock; I listen to the low,

sweet gurgle of the water as it speaks to the rocks,

to the sand, telling tales of faraway lands.

While the stoic stones feign indifference,

even as they sit spellbound upon the river’s word. 

The delicate conversation lulls my senses. 

The peace shatters as awful sound tears the valley.

The squeal of green branches resisting the motion of—

a cow moose who emerges, a black flame of frustration

from out of the clumped and tangled willows.

It is this sudden noise that ends my reverie.

Panicked she quests to find— what?

Ah, there is her wayward calf. 

I rise up with the thought that I have found happiness,

but now I must go-- for mosquitoes care not a whit

for dreams, nor words. 

Odd then that they truly enjoy having poets about.

- Vincent Seeger