No breeze.
Stark heat.
The ground still drying,
leaching a mineral scent.
It’s amazing how much noise
one quail can make
and there are at least thirty
in the elderberry tree.
Ninety-three in the shade—
I said I’d get some work done
but the watermelon I cut
is already warm.
Not even the wasps
can muster up interest—
slow in flight, dragging
their legs behind them.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Beautifully captured, and the bees just give your poem that extra sting.
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I see what you did there… thanks!
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I’m a fan of your thoughts:) . just Tell me what you imagine when you write these poems ?
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Eh, mostly I just try to stay out of my own way 🙂
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