Indian Summer
By John Selby


Not a thread of mist obscures
the way the land ambles
banked by bay and sky

as shining and clear
as the faces of saints.

What purity

pours forth from earth!

This must be the way
Portola saw the air
with not a vapor of civilization
to mar it.

In Indian summer

there lies the peace of rebirth,
autumn's dream for future
resting in fallen leaves.

The babble of machinery calls out
for a cataclysm of silence. Such things
can't last: their very existence
is an affront to nature.

In this calm

warm clear morning, the atmosphere
whispers forever informing us
that we're ciphers in wind and all
our brilliant inventions will
dissolve and disappear.

It may take
millions of centuries
or just
a fraction of a second

but nothing survives
the terrible beautiful
movements of nature.

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