Minimum Requiem for an Era

Hard not to think, days like these,
Of Keats’s ode "To Autumn”
And the lines about the bees.

All our hustles still bustle;
All our roads remain busy,
But extending our summer
Has just made us uneasy.

So hustle bustle harder.
Don’t let the quiet begin.

No patriotic orchestra
Wants a first chair air violin.