Withered

Wilted day closes and the air outside cools, but it's still midday in here, the stillness still oppressive. The evening breeze is not breezing. The great, fleshy leaves of the mulberry tree hang limp, reflecting the last of the day's light from the fading sky. No rustling, no bobbing. Something has slaughtered the air. It is a cooling corpse, soon to stiffen, lying on the heated ground. This will never do. If only all the birds would flap their wings and take flight at once, perhaps it would stir enough air to at least make the curtains move.

But no, the birds refuse to help. They are going to bed. I shall be forced to resort to the noisy electric fan that ruins the placidity of the evening. On your heads be it , birds!

Hotter tomorrow. Oh, July.


( Sunday Verse )