July Lament

For me, the stultifying air is not conducive to delight. Four in the morning. I am picturing the sunlight already slamming its withering rays onto the plains, preparing to scale the Rockies and rush across the gasping deserts, all to the end of attacking me. Yesterday's heat hangs around in the house like a persistent guest at a party that has lasted too long. Tomorrow is as unwelcome, but the continuous moonlight indicates that the sun has not gone out and that dawn will almost certainly arrive. I go outside for some fresh air and find it still scented with pine sweat. I listen for a while to a cricket which is chirping from the bed of sourgrass. Once again, I find myself desiring to breathe an exotic air, perhaps in some sea-verged garden where brightly colored frogs splash the surfaces of glistening ponds and make the moon's reflection ripple. I would like to be sung to sleep by nightingales and wake to soft rain. Instead, I will hear screeching blue jays and endure a sultry sleep until the blazing light and scorching atmosphere force me to rise. Happy Independence Day.

( Sunday Verse )

My cat just killed a bird. The victim's fellows throng about the offending feline, screeching in vain protest. The small, gray corpse lies between the recumbent cat's paws, still and silent. I won't watch her eat it. I'll have bad dreams, anyway.

Celebration

Flags are out at many houses, hanging limp in the hot, still air. In one place, a faint scent of freshly cut grass. Another place, the dank odor of mist drifting from a lawn sprinkler. Other than that, the day smells of dry, sun-baked soil and weedy brown fields. It is quiet, but for the chirping of a few birds and the occasional bark of a dog. Cars pass but rarely, making the evening seem like late night, or like some evening long past, when there were only a few houses scattered among the woods and orchards. It is as though half the town has gone away. In a while, I will hear the soft concussions of rockets exploding miles away, and perhaps the squeals and whistles of small fountains set off by a nearby lawbreaker or two. I think I'll make popcorn. Pop! Pop! Pop!