A Day in July

 When I dream myself away beyond the dying Douglas Fir,

The sizzling orange Ponderosa Pines about to slide

From ridge to road across Sterling Creek,

When the summer exhales one hundred degree heat

And the wild ones hide underneath the walnut tree,

Silence lays her head upon the browning grass

Too weary now to carry birdsong if such song there were.

Bees slip deep into the honey of their oak tree hive;

Hornets burrow into dirt beneath the front porch planks

And language dies. Words crumble into syllables,

Bleach to white and wait in a pile of ash

For an evening coastal wind to drift up

Through canyons and hollows,

Thermals lifting eagles, supporting swirls of red-tailed hawks

Each inscribing with their wings

A line of calligraphy in the sky.

    -Christin Lore Weber 7/9/2023