Fading Sept-embers

The spiders out there
are knocked silly by the night
and weave cockeyed patterns in their webs
because of the protective alcohol in their juices
until the sun finally warms them in the morning.

The insects are delerious so close
to the end of their brief days.
They tighten themselves in balls
and long for just another
frenetic crunch of their mandibles.

The flowers have burned themselves away
and the trees turn their backs refusing the pleas
of their leaves, slipping into
shock and hiding deep in their cilliated wood.