Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Poem: Dog Days

Heat-thick air and the scent of mown grass
As an old man trims golf-course lines into his lawn.
A lone heron over the dry-grass slough,
One circling black dot just above the vivid divide
Between cool treeline and empty sky.
Dust-motes hang in the becalmed air,
Drifting among heatlines rising
Off the neighbor's tin roof.
Save for the insects, nature is still and silent.

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Summer is over and the sun is setting out my window, meaning it's a perfect time to start missing summer. Yeah. I wrote this at the height of a heat wave in July. That is all.