This may be the last mildness, the last warm eve
Where thunder prowls. A million crickets shrill
Towards sudden silence, but I do not grieve
The coming cut of cold. It’ll do what it will,
For it always does. Men who must have warmth
Don’t move to Montana; the news reports
A blizzard there, but my part of the north
Clings to summer. I’ll put away my shorts
Tomorrow. Tonight I’ll just sit and heed
The million crickets. I’ll order the tankful
Of heating oil tomorrow. Now I need
To look back at summer, and be thankful
To blooms for honey, although to survive
I soon must vanish in the waxy hive.

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