AUGUST Drifting grass hoppers, the wings off drowned flies and frogs smugly floating get pushed by the hot wind into the corner of the new swimming pool Uncle owns and down on its bottom oak leaves rot black and pale worms wave hazy in their own decomposing and yet there's no time for the work of reclaiming the water. Each day blows over too quickly to savour though each one is ripe with the garden's wet needs. Among them tomatoes in the eight ay em fog, the over sweet corn in afternoon's yellow husk and the juice from cucumbers still warm in green evening. After each night fall only the dry and high insect noise hangs on over the dried out soil and the only wet need left belongs to the algae clouded pool. That need grows small under the dark that clouds the sleeping time and the insect noise sounds like the sound always does, spilling in to the pool from the spring water sky.