Collecting the dead to build a late August nest, mourning doves turn over weed stems and tree twigs like picky shoppers in a bargain bin. Playing in the background, cicada song released by summer’s hand after years entombed now spiraling upward like hot wind seeking any surface to be heard.
Sight and sound and being.
A yeoman’s knife slides between your armor scales. The narrow slit of your being’s faceplate in which the world pivots and billows inward. Now you sleep the cicada’s night, long and dark, waiting for summer’s heat to rush forth seeking any surface in which to be.