In all the silent sitting there is still and present peace. Yet soon the June bug pops against glass, until, upon release, it exerts a fleeting thrust, like a clumsy and foolish Icarus, flying towards the setting sun. Grass grows and speaks its grassness. Strands of bubbles blown from the bows of skeleton keys fatten, float, and burst like swollen exploding eyes. Swirls of wisteria and bindweed hint at beauty, encircling sunflower and honeysuckle in a tangle of summer. The flickering code of fireflies climbs the sky through branches above the backyard. The nights are cha-cha, rumba, bossa nova, and samba on the patio record player, and like the bright bricks of the back wall, colored only in chalk, fade in three quick months.