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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.