Three Thirty-Seven in the Afternoon

The air rumbles as it is conditioned and cooled

The thunder drums roll along the paths lightning spooled

Brooding clouds consume their fairer friends and feud with the star of the sky

Beneath the dirt and greenery, critters crawl, skitter, and slither by

Dust and soil raise their choir hands high, praising and calling the water nigh

The symphony plays, drops tickling the ivories of leaves and screens and cement and sleeves

Crackles loud and low sing as puddles turn to streams

No conductor or baton, just summer’s final screaming song


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