leaves droop from trees the sky droops from branches like a white sheet to hold the locusts in their buzzsaw whine a blaze of sound july is god's forge, god's hammer coming down again and again, stupefyingly hot at seven o'clock the heat its own kind of sound a swarm upon my skin july is sumo wrestling with the sun belly to belly we stomp and sweat and shout the sun always wins the birds slump and pant too hot to chase the screaming insects even the wind dries out, curls up panting in the woodpile with the snakes.
