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.
* * * * * * * * *
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.
