The turkey-buzzard sits low
against the dead and rotting oak,
waiting and watching, as dry grass
shrivels in the heat.
Summer fills the valley
cutting like a sword.
Water drips slowly,
falling onto hollowed rock,
providing small relief for birds
as they gather to discuss
the oppressive, searing heat.
Clouds push and grow
against the mountains,
forcing distant thunder
as the air becomes heavy.
The Sun—white hot,
passes slowly beyond the hills,
dropping the valley into shadow,
bringing rest but no relief.
Days pass and all that remains
is the heat.
DVWG Poet Greg B. Porterfield
Comments