LATE SUMMER AFTERNOON
Heavy as hot wet flannel, every breath... I hate to sit or move in this August afternoon. Sticky-damp, clothes cling, a drag against ambition. Birds, lethargic, sing only if they must, fly ghostlike if at all. Cicadas ratchet on and on-- maddeningly constant, and mosquitos whine or strike unheard, the devils! Roses overblown and bright, relishing this tropic season, exude aromas heavy and too sweet. I languish, scowling, discontent and longing for the night-- for sleeping cool and waking to a... Sign in to see full entry.