the sultry summer air hangs low and close
while the cottonwood down lazes toward the grass
the bees are at the milkweed
buzzing into the pale purple blooms
with an industry that makes me sweat just to watch them
clouds of grim and gauzy grey have gathered,
threatening, since morning
but no cannonade of thunder sounds relief
—
now the winds roars through the trees
and forty-foot giants sway and shake
their leafy arms at the capricious sky
as twigs snap and go flying
but still the clouds hold, the humidity stagnant
despite the clamor and the rush
and still i wait for thunder —
but no thunder comes
