Sticky hot, the air hangs like dead weight.
The faint smell of peonies lingers;
Or maybe that’s some other kind of flower.
I’m not sure. I never really was one to differentiate floral aromas.
I only know the smell of jasmine — my favorite.
This is not that.
Birds chirp high up, signaling the end of day.
Is that the smell of dirt?
As if it had recently rained, though it has not.
A single cobweb string suckles at my face —
I do so love the feeling of “getting dark out”.
As if we’ve all learned the rhythms of the earth and are a part of her tribe. However cast out we as humans may be.
There’s a rustle in the bush across the way.
A coyote? Maybe. I am far up in the hills, here.
In fact, coming down from them is a skin I don’t dare shed…yet.
May I stay a bit longer?
- b. nintzel