everyweather

Feels like the dog days of August. Afternoon waft from last Tuesday's burn pile somehow smoldering still. It's white cursive lifting from a heap of fine, taupe powder surrounded by thick grass, a circle of seedblown dandelion stems standing guard like spent matchsticks. The fluff has since sailed, collected by the bluebirds, who felt it into the walls of their nests, accenting the white fur of a dog two years gone. Elvis. On a hot day like today, he would have hid in the waiting area of the barn, flat against the concrete, the vacuum pump humming, pulsators clicking, dreaming of snow.