Every year, August lashes out in volcanic fury,
rising with the din of morning traffic,
its great metallic wings smashing against the ground,
heating the air with ever-increasing intensity.
This August is no exception around here. Fires are burning their way up the mountains and the asphalt clutches at your shoes. It's a hot, dry month and the clouds are still smothered by summer's haze.
Feels like the right time to sit in the shade and watch the birds indulge in their bath...
...and maybe share a little poem, inspired by these afternoon visitors!
The tiny sparrows
gather on the rim
of my garden bath,
as they flutter about
in the sun-warmed water,
reveling in the simple
pleasure of the bath
until suddenly, as one,
they fall silent--
cocking their heads
as if to say
hey, who farted?