[Belated] Snapshot 10 August 02005

August, the afternoon
of the year, when the civilized
retreat to shelter and shade. 

I wake early, before morning
climbs over the mountain. I wake
hot, distressed. I run away from

my dreams. I wake in dampness,
and sleep again. I wake late
in the morning. I wake in wet

sheets. I dream of volcanos,
and wake with this heat on my
face. Last night a wind came

through our courtyard. It snapped
the top off the birch tree. I woke
this morning to the whining snarl

of the arborist’s saw. The drowsy
hours. If there is conversation,
it is languid and undemanding.

If there is skin on skin, it is slick
and slippery. The air is heavy
and smells of smoke.

Comments

[deb]

Are the fires very close to you, SB?

[David Bridger]

I know these feelings well, but I could never bring them into daylight as well as you have done here. Thanks for this.

[SB]

Thank you, David. And Deb, the fires are close, but not as close as they have been.