the polished-gem lyricism of birdsong sounds in the distance,
barely audible within the airless womb of heat-stroked August.
The mood of the somnolent afternoon is as elusive as sex and death:
Conjugal rigors and rigor mortis are soaked in the sweat of
ebbing summer's languor;
not the slightest breeze tugs at the window curtains of the bedroom.
The sizzling trill of cicadas rises
from the weed-infested culverts of the black metaled road,
where the tar bubbles languidly with pungent, breath-taking fumes.
The motionless, suffocating ambience is as hot as a kiln.
Visibly invisible waves of heat swelter in the feverish light,
one of nature's sensory paradoxes.
Light in August exposes the mysterious essences of things,
ripeness about to burst and poised to shrivel,
phenomena seen but not heard,
heard but not seen,
felt but not touched,
experienced but not grasped.