Heat Wave
The Hedgerow birds are wilting;
they will not sing
and even the circling hawk
gives them no alarm
for he also is weary
and tries only to catch a cooling breeze.
In the shade of a white oak
I hunt for that same cool air
but I am too low to the baking ground,
the hot irons of the sun
are smelting bones.
This listless stupor
threatens to unwind the mainsprings
of nature itself.
Of course, birds do not believe in weather,
each moment for them is a picture
in a gallery of extinctual reactions.
In the throes of a heat-wave, only humans
have this prescience of suffering,
nature has no memory
just a faith in the next moment,
and the next, then the next,
unto death or release.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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