Hot Attic Dry

This deep in August,
Cicadas go long,
Run the length of the field
With their each-other song.

Zinnias on stalks,
With defeat in their eye,
Brown upward in place
Going hot-attic dry.

The hawk, he is hungry;
The squirrel hops it nimble
Down his power line highway,
A risk, a life-gamble.

Only the butterflies
Haven’t a care.
Their wings drink abundance
From oven-hot air.

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