through the golden morning
while the heat hangs above
sun brightens bushes
festooned in flame and gold
though it’s only August
a brief chill rises
and ruffles my hair
only to disappear into
exhaust, sputtering trucks, backwards baseball caps
and piss-colored rubber rafts riding rivers
where are charcoal-colored skies
soft rains and leaves sweeping in dances
crackling and rising over vast country roads
without crumpled Coors cans and crackling laughs
come soon, September
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Amarillo Bay 