On this cat-infested block, it takes a moment to register a baby’s cry. Next door, another odd sound—it’s so hot, the natives are showering.
In the blue sky, the downward dog of a moon just past the clothesline. I take my apple core to the compost, a dark chaos too hot for worms.
As the heat builds, the cicadas’ electric drills fall silent one by one. Coneflowers wilt until they look like yellow jellyfish.
Hazy and warm. As the sun climbs, the cicada chorus grows, and the field cricket in the garden chirps faster and faster.