It's morning still, and already 95 degrees.
The heat has come early and stayed,
settled in like an unwelcome guest,
walls and windows, warping the closet doors
and desk drawers, weighing down
the pockets of our thin, damp clothing.
The ceiling fans turn without pause, as does
our world, of course, but slowly, slowly.
The birds have retreated into leaf-shadow.
The dogs make no sound but breath.
The daylilies bend wearily toward the earth.
From our balcony, amongst our collection
of winged seeds and twigs, my daughter
sings a song to the trees, soft and melodious,
words blowing through her at their ease,
repeating the sounds that please her.
It's a lullaby, she explains, to lull them to sleep;
and it's true, the trees seem to be hardly
moving now, as if granted a secret reprieve
by one who shares their native language.
In this way, our day has been blessed.
In this way, the air itself made light again.
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