Sweltering hot the summer heat on me,

orange weighty July air on fire,

oppressive, suppressive, stifling, punishing.

Took a walk to the mailbox, a distance of a small yard,

lingered in the light, listening for the bugs and birds and beautiful noise of

Michigan in July

when wet earthroots of deep life dance more vigorously and reach

tendrilled fingers up and up through mantle to troposphere,

tickling the air with leaves and lush abundance green forests and fields

about sandy shores and brown rivers flowing

full of freshwater fish and bobs luring

beneath the gentle canoe quietly bobbing,

there a father and a son gently, quietly bonding,

the deep blue of Otchipwe-kitchi-gami’s deep blue behind quietly, gently lapping,

the wind a whistle the tune of ancient drumbeats,

of the bows nocked loose old arrowheads,

of black snakes chugging,

of mustangs running.

Lingered a moment, there a moment longer,

through a skybreak of elms, white pines, maples, and cedar

the sun fell upon me, licked my skin with a hot tongue,

settled on my shoulders and stirred no movement.

Too hot, far too hot,

the wind stopped blowing.

I heard not a thing.