by Cheryl Margiotta

In the dog days of August
when a Persian Blue sky drapes the horizon
and summer holds her last breath
lone figures stand in fields of whisky
tilt their heads
scan the skies
skim calloused hands over the bleached whiskers
crouch to pluck the plaited seeds
crush them and let them fall
push their fingers to the earth
feel the soil’s honest sweat
shake their heads

maybe tomorrow