Southern Dog Days

Southern Dog Days

               -Joy S. Barefoot

Sun, almost set,

a fireball of brilliant tangerine
dipping behind the pines
beyond the old rail fence;
framed by the knobby limbs
of the aging apple tree.
Cricket screams crescendo; die away.
Lawn mowers make final paths
over dry and brittle grass.
A distant train
whistles a lonesome sound.
I can hear, and almost feel,
the wheels, battering the tracks.
One lone bird sings a twilight song
and the air lays hot and humid.
An old man, in a red cap,
goes to his garden
with his gathering bucket.
Red geraniums droop in thirst.
Coral spreads across the sky,
slowly spilling its heart.
Tree limbs blacken
against approaching darkness
as lights begin to appear in houses.
A door slams.
Another bird calls.
Restless leaves whisper,
signaling a fast approaching storm.
A low rumble
and the earthy smell of rain.