Tropic

[rejectomorph]

These nights are like fevers. Even waking, my thoughts toss and turn, a restless sleeper with troubled dreams. I walk out into the night to look at the waning moon and the bright red dot that is Mars. The trees seem to droop, as though distorted by the heat, and dim cloud shapes make the sky seem artificial. I have no idea how much time has passed. The east turns to a hearth where coals blaze up, and the crickets fall silent. I imagine sleep as a dark blue pool with invitingly cool depths. Still, there, I know, other fevered dreams lurk, where the rising sun will soon be reflected.