Thoughts on an August Morning

The sun's behind the mountain now by nine o'clock at night;
When I climb the stairs to bed, I must turn on the light.
The fireweed has blossomed more than halfway up the bloom.
The higher up the color goes, the sooner summer's doom.
Oh, everywhere I drive or walk,
The color's inching up the stalk,
And soon will turn to cotton fluff -
Ah, summer's never long enough!