Palm tree, bored prophet
of sunshine, tattles
in the inaugural breezes, certain
of storm. The low rumble at the edge
lurks, a contained force
that could ravish the panting
land with one swoop of its paw. The air
creaks with crickets, and phantom clouds
mask an impartial white sun.
The swing hangs motionless
from the carob tree, aching
for youth. Faraway dogs
bark at every movement to stay sane,
while angular cats
languish in the shade.
Viki Peitchev 