stuck in a musty fold of time,
when the world spins in place
and the season teeters on the brink
as every August that ever was
seeps in the marrow of a single day.
I rise in darkness.
Damp air caresses my skin
as I amble down empty streets listening to crickets.
Furtive songbirds molt in silence.
A doe slips through the shadows of a streetlamp.
The moon dissolves in a bank of haze.
Morning dawns, gray-laden and soft,
tucked with mushrooms, mold and rot,
laced with dew-spun webs.
The sodden hours slip by, dripping,
yet in the dripping, never dry. But mist
burns off by noon, and midday glares.
As sun beats down on bare pavement,
profane hawks shriek obscenities.
A gang of crows loiters in the treetops.
Oblivious gnats hurl their bodies
at unguarded eyes. The world thrums
with the jet-beat of cicada days.
On a primal August such as this
griffinflies stretched their foot-long wings
to hunt Carboniferous swamps.
Red-eyed raptors stalked Jurassic plains,
and monster crocs lay in wait for Cretaceous prey.
They ruled their own unchanging days.
The western sky blackens. Cool
downdrafts shake the canopy. Limbs crack.
A pack of storms sweeps through.
Out my open bedroom window
a sultry evening settles in. Soon,
I think. Soon enough the season turns.
Soon enough it all moves on. I sleep
with the distant night-song of dilophosaurus
enveloped by ancient tree-tip strumming –
she did – she didn’t
she did – she didn’t
she did – she did – she did
More poems of August:
August night sounds with katydids and dilophosaurus:
Dilophosaurus chasing Scutellosaurus-By ABelov2014
(https///abelov2014.deviantart.com/) -
https///abelov2014.deviantart.com/art/Dilophosaurus-603376947,
CC BY-SA 3.0
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