Tuesday morning it’s hot at 8:00 am,

the first really hot morning like baseball practice in July,

running from foul poll to foul poll after a loss,

biking to the gas station when it was all over for slushies.

Blackbirds carve the thick air in long, swirling dives.

Pickups with ACs blasting arrive at job sites.

The long, gray clouds of April are sunken ships

hidden deep in the blue sky of mid-May.

The garden is thirsty.

The first cup of coffee is not quite a pleasure,

but grass on toes,

on the way to the wooden gate standing ajar,

the soil like bones waiting to be shaken,

is intoxicating.

I inspect the beds and make an extra trip on purpose

to the spigot behind the house,

flip on the water,

and watch it wave from 90 to 10 degrees

in perfect half parabolas in the windless sky,

kissing leaves,

rubbing dry earth,

out and back,

out and back.