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Heat

The turkey-buzzard sits low

against the dead and rotting oak,

waiting and watching, as dry grass

shrivels in the heat.


Summer fills the valley

cutting like a sword.


Water drips slowly,

falling onto hollowed rock,

providing small relief for birds

as they gather to discuss

the oppressive, searing heat.


Clouds push and grow

against the mountains,

forcing distant thunder

as the air becomes heavy.


The Sun—white hot,

passes slowly beyond the hills,

dropping the valley into shadow,

bringing rest but no relief.


Days pass and all that remains

is the heat.


DVWG Poet Greg B. Porterfield

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