Hot, I know why dwell on a subject. I can not fix it, I did not do it, just reporting things as I see them. At times, you just got to let the inner Poet out to ramble for a bit, and I'm letting him loose.
Morning air
Still as a dead man’s breath
Soft as a midmorning star
Unseen,
desert blanket covers the land.
Santa Ana's, bluff and harsh
Announce their arrival
In brazen sounds of wind,
Assertive in Their dominance
Strident in passing.
Ghosts of sand,
of Indians, Spaniards and western lore.
But
This heat has no sounds
No pulse, no malevolence
Even As it takes breath,
Draws all moisture
And in sepulchral silence,
bears all
To parched and weary ground.
I'm old enough to get away with this, Have a groovy weekend!
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