those hot scorching days
the flag pole limp-hanging
at the fire station,
restless men shopping for hammers
at Clint’s Hardware,
ready to bust somethin’.
one of those big rig days,
their big engines screaming down highways.
brush-back echoes moving tall trees,
heat pushing back the sky.
some of those dense days, thick
with sweat, drops tilting down
sideburns, grey shirts blotching
armpits black.
if those updrafts catch a wing,
they don’t let go, pushing
feathers to cyclic quickening,
floating bodies rising, wing
span swallowing air.
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Ron