Movement

A light breeze blows late spring
into my yard.

Figs fall from my tree, overripe,
half eaten by squirrels.

The grass gone, rubbed to dirt from
lack of water.

The leaves at the top of the trees rustle,
their shadows dance across the brown floor.

I sit, waiting, as the shadows
advance, recede, advance again.

Darkness is coming, I can see it
move, and I am sitting, waiting.