August’s
Heat wanes.
The last cicada calls me.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
I shift the air.
It pauses.
Goes still.
The wind’s breath stops.
Draws in.
And goes silent.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
Palm leaves fold in.
Flat.
The chirping of birds
Goes unheard.
My hand
Is heavy.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
My gust lifts.
A metallic taste.
My dark clouds hang
Their mouths open
Ready to throw.
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They hold
One last
Breath.
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Then—
About to fall.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
ROAR.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
Never again the same–
Their last drop.
💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 