The mercury is on the move,
quicksilver rising high.
As Sol heads toward his zenith post
the day looms hot and dry.
Dust devils made by sparrows
taking dry baths in the lane
hover in the windless air,
no sign of coming rain.
Heat waves arise from sticky tar
and shingles on the shed.
Except for birds the silent world
lies heavy, stagnant, dead.
But robins splash quite merrily
at birdbaths wreathed by flowers,
creating lovely rainbows
from their bright alfresco showers.
Too hot to move, the human flocks
recline with lemonade
on porch swings or in front of fans,
on hammocks in the shade.
Out in the kitchen garden patch
hop raucous, blue-black thieves.
Industrious, scarecrow disdained,
they’re bringing in the sheaves.
While people sipping icy tea
yearn for the setting sun,
hummers slurp red nectar mix
from feed ports one-by-one.
On the fencerow goldfinch dance,
late summer courtship started.
But human romance waits till night;
the heat leaves hugs half-hearted.
From choir lofts throughout the trees
come anthems without words.
The lazy days of dogs and men
don’t still the songs of birds.
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