Timid in the dewy dark.
A light, a rattle—a dark shape slinks by
Then stretches and sits and ponders a toad.
The light comes now
People go: doors and quick steps,
Hollers and kisses.
A light-induced bravery stiffens the neck—
The slinker pants behind the cedar;
Moisture sucked from leaves and dirt:
Hanging about between earth and sky,
A weight on the foreheads of little ones
Melting back inside.
The deep colors recede, head droops.
Beating down now, white hot
A slow simmer with head bowed low.
Then a shadow passes—
A brief respite, like a snow cone—
The postman makes his rounds.