It's one hundred and five degrees
in the shade and there's no shade.
there's no breeze and no birds in
the trees. It hasn't rained here
in a month of Sundays.
There's no clouds in the sky,
the grass is scorched, burnt
and dying or dead. The sky is
just a dry, ugly haze of red.
The lake has gone dry, there's
no croaking frogs, no colorful
butterflies flying high.
The well is about to go dry,
and the dust fills the sky.
It's hotter than a firecracker
on the fourth of July.
The old black cat lies on his back like
he's dead, only moves when he's fed.
The hound sits up, scratches his nose,
and moans about his woes.
The old man sits on the porch slowly sipping
his beer, and fans with his straw hat,
wondering if winter will ever get here.
When winter gets here, he will be wondering
where Summer went?