Yanked & slashed the honeysuckle --
ravaged with leaf blight --
reeled in all the sinewy tendrils.
Clipped & sawed.
(No more honey to suckle.)
I should just resort to poison.
(Some better/worse part of me stops, and considers.)
A few late last blossoms persist in spite of the imminent demise.
Your suckling days are over.
Tonight the breeze shifted, suddenly, the day's heat expired.
There's always the fear that, once the fall rains begin, we won't see another sunny day until next July.
Anyway. It smells like rain.
Tomorrow I'll pick bowls-full of grapes, just now ripe. A handful of blasted starlings stood vigil with me this afternoon, awaiting that final sugar surge. They've done it before -- beaked every vine clean -- a gorged frenzy of them and sounding like every language being spoken at once in their cackles and gurgles, their whistles and whoops. I love them, I hate them.