Coming Poem by Morgan Michaels

Waking this morning, it was clear:
'what', you wondered,
'is this new burr in the air,
this small red cloud,
this widget of geese
winging unflappably
southwestward
honking officiously
the fringes of August
lashed to their feet,
whisking itaway
to the land where
gone summers are stowed-

some passing presage of the coming?

A blunderbuss conceit
straightaway plowed under
the job of the day once underway?

Maybe-
but this you should know:
as Will precedes Do
and Do precedes Done,
one act wrung, another's begun.