Beyond where the black top ends, and hawks
rise thermal up the skies, as dust
is deviled by the wind–
a hound, right ear thumped twice behind
by paw, sniffs up the passing breeze
and flaps his ear against a fly–
horizons melt as locusts sing
to windmill’s croaking counterpoint.
You lift a glass of tea.
Ice chinks as condensation drips
like tears that soon evaporate,
and patiently you strive
to reason out how this is good
(while glass is to the forehead pressed)
but nothing comes to mind.