Late Summer’s Late Morning

The sun may already be high
But the clouds have decided it will be vague
Humidity dashes across my fingers
My shirt grips a little tighter
Trying to merge with me
Not quite damp

The leaves are singing
The birds are quiet
They're waiting for a signal
What season is it, really?
In-between, as usual, an unstable perfection

I am a mirror for the morning
Waiting to hear the call
Have the seasons changed?
This haunting glow says, "Maybe."
I'll wait to be sure, before I sing