The Hot, Still Air

The ravine's waterways hardly reflect those
hard slanting rolling cloudbursts that clapped
throughout a full day; all absorbed. The ground
hungrily took to the partial rescue of its
parched desperation, and the trails capped by
generations of shed pine-needles, gleam
brightly orange. Throughout the ravine
hovers the pervasive heated atmosphere;
not yet gone the cloyingly deep humidity.

Early morning brought the return of summer's
ferocious sun and a wide-saucered serving of
cloud-undisturbed, blue sky. Yet the resistant
curtain of hot, moist air triumphs, with not even
the most trifling movement of air. The formula:
breeze-less damp, sticky, relentless heat.

Tree trunks, still dark with absorbed moisture,
their leaves a glowing emerald treat. A
mourning dove gravely coos. Above the
motionless green canopy, a pair of hawks
circle the sky, whistling, screeching in the
hot, still air. A brilliantly-plumed cardinal trills
ceaselessly as juvenile crows racket about.