Dave Bonta watches a woodland in the middle of a mid-July drought and simply notes what he sees. Faded red blooms look like dropped leaves. A monarch chrysalis falls from above, and the poem imagines it as a bitter mouthful for a young bird still learning to feed itself. Blueberries ripen while cracks open in the moss, and a doe, tormented by flies, strips a small spicebush bare.
The speaker never says outright how he feels, but the careful, close attention suggests worry mixed with wonder. Nature is both suffering and carrying on. The mood is hot, tense and a little uneasy, until the hummingbird arrives. Its engine-like hum grows to "a minor roar" as it darts over the beebalm. The flowers, though dried and fragile, still draw it in. The final lines turn drought into something almost hopeful: living things will take risks, even near ruin, to satisfy a deeper need.