Birds fan themselves;
in heat they witness
my slow foundation –
so slow nothing builds.

For me, no road.
Even rodents quickly
scurry upon the ground,
finding nourishment,

Soil. With grubs,
manure, the dead –
not my only refuge,
but my only.

A hoped-for flowering,
a temporary beauty.
Beneath the heat –
before the cold –
a sign things might
be better.

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