Seagulls cry
screaching calls,
skydiving.
Spiralling
through blue skies
watching us.
Picnic lunch
temptation
French fry thieves.
.
Tricube poem: 3 stanzas of 3 lines each with 3 syllables.
Seagulls cry
screaching calls,
skydiving.
Spiralling
through blue skies
watching us.
Picnic lunch
temptation
French fry thieves.
.
Tricube poem: 3 stanzas of 3 lines each with 3 syllables.
Beyond us
the world has gone
swallowed in grey
a haze that glows orange
at night, around the edges that once
were mountains.
We cannot breathe.
Beyond us
the world has gone.
.
.
.
.
Purpleair.com reports our air quality has improved today. We’re down to 389 from 450s (out of 500) earlier in the week. Still “extremely hazardous.” Wildfires are most unpleasant, particularly where valleys converge and smoke from several fires gathers. The smoke is visible in the street and yards. 254 active fires in our province, over 40% of them out of control. 4 large fires in our local region. Thousands of people evacuated or on alert. Hoping for a weekend of lightning-less rain to wash the sky and allow for deep breaths again! Our lovely 30 degree Celsius summer is wasted when one can’t be outside.
I count three shooting stars
as the porch swing rocks to the rhythm
of one desperately lovesick frog.
The temperature has soared;
crowds gather on the lake
for another hot summer day,
but early this morning
I heard the geese leaving,
portents of autumn on the wind.
Evening chorus
is al fresco dining
‘Hello out there!’
‘Where are you, baby?
‘Over here, boys!’
Amphibian karaoke.
Beating out its rhythm of
summer romance.
Hot day.
The mall is packed.
Swimming lessons need a driver
(kids can’t get anywhere by themselves, after all).
Joggers sweating past.
Gas mower chugs obnoxiously around the yard.
I miss the soft swisha-swisha of dad’s old Rotary mower
when summer was gentler
and filled with children’s laughter.