The morning, hushed; red with
the promise of more heat
to come; the birds sing one
last melody before
the heat squashes their tune;
the only things in flight,
squadrons of mosquitoes
cussing DEETed flesh; there
goes target practice.  The
sky, clear as the truth; no
clouds would dare leave scars; a
breeze tickles the leaves and
barely kisses skin with
relief; doors closed, window
shades drawn against summer
as I walk by; better
now than later, when the
press of humidity
sucks life out of lungs of
all living things, except
mosquitoes.  Y'all don't know.

(c) 2007, Karla Dorman. 6/11)