Remains of the Hot Day

The day is hot. Spot, every spot heated up, up, up. Down, down beats the brightness from the hole in the sky. Air rises. Hope falls.

I love it!

From craggy perch to rustling weeds I get to flit. I get. I flit. I flop and flap. I chortle and giggle. All is glee. All is merriment. That is what I meant. Is it what I meant?

My head tilts, pretty red, pretty bald head. I see. He sees. She sees. We pull ourselves aloft. We meander and weel, as is our want. We want. We ought. Down below, the black buffet provides. We drop and drop and drop.

Baked, this meal is, spread upon the flat black stretch. I prefer raw; it’s juicier. I’m not a picky one though. I will eat, in the heat, no seat, pull a bit for a beat. The ear is mine. The tail is his. The eye is gone, done rolled away. It’s okay. It’s gone.

Gone. Lots of things are gone. I don’t mind. Go. Go away, things. No matter to me and my kin. You go all you like and be gone.

No matter, for death remains. In remains. It remains.

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