Heatwave

The Hedgerow birds are wilting, even the circling hawk gives them no alarm. All is too low to the baking ground, the hot irons of the sun are smelting bones. This listless stupor threatens to unwind the mainsprings of a limber joy. The hot sky has no memory it plants one moment, into the next, seeds squish and crush the earth with a jejune heaviness. The day will end wingless in pools of turgid body-sweat. We will simmer slow then wingless unto God we go wet & witless.