Seven flies circle, Trimmers chatter down the block: The hum of summer. I listen, silent, waiting, Breathing in sun and out shade.
Scent of cinnamon Light slips over the mountain Cirrus clouds blushing.
Warm wind from the west Sunlight pours across the plains Cicadas singing Four-hundred miles from home This western land not my own
Fig leaves like fingers paw feebly through still hot air and come up with naught. Too early for fruit to droop, we must wait past midsummer.
Blackbird headed south Down to the hawks and kudzu Six months 'til winter
Redbud and dogwood feathers bursting from leaf-wait in the deep of here underneath cut mountaintops up and down flooded culverts
A light sighing sound, Wind slipping through leaf and wing, The heat's brief respite.
A storm is coming My ears perk at the crashing It is almost here The end of a season near Fresh rain pours from the heavens