The Meadow 123 Heat Wave Christopher Locke Sun plucking sky like a sheet music of bees, all of us hiding in parlors and basements dug by others long vanished. Humidity sags between trees like church bells underwater. No escape, no amusement in the turkey sandwiches stiffening atop plates, countertop breadcrumbs a tiny Stonehenge for ants dizzy at the offering. It is not a day for creditors or salesmen; a day with you on your hands and knees in the garden like you’ve come seeking forgiveness, nature rendered sick and unbeautified. I cannot even find solace in the quick dart of gold finch, his back shamed yellow like the sun—the original bully—as I stand blinded in my yard, grass curling beneath me like the toes of the dead.
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