How Hot Was It Momma

As sundried river beds mock passing clouds Browned fields mourn old scarecrows in shrouds Windmills sit idle as candles are lit hummingbirds silent too weary to flit A rocking chair creaks outside a screen door a rhythm of dried wood been through it before The sun sets more slowly or so it seems Determined to thwart our desire for dreams The moon but a shadow of its former self sits on a cloud like the elf on the shelf A breeze on the roadway a quick puff of dust A passing Tesla “Oklahoma or bust” John G. Lawless ©7/22/2022