BY HARRY WAITZMAN
I slip around stalks of goldenrod and wave
to bumblebees. Kerplonk! I’m one unhappy
bullfrog grumping in Congers Lake.
A red-tailed hawk wheels above me as rows
of apple trees green the horizon. The new moon
climbs like a monkey as cicadas sing arias.
A silver-haired conductor hums and gyrates,
thrashing his arms until they fall from his body.
The orchestra plays on without him.