Restless in mid-June,
she watches helplessly 
as Kansas wind 
scuffs clouds 
caught between
spring's brilliant forsythia
and imminent August,
with its wilted flora
and suffocating heat--
she was angry 
with knowing.

It's too early for the owl,
or too late, neither she nor I
is sure, but here she is,
nonetheless, lazily perched
on the squirrel feeder, waiting
for dinner to be served.