August. The air smells of earth and hot grass like burned toast,
its scent expanding, rising from the valley floor with the heat left by noon skies
as dusk drapes itself over the hills.
We're driving in it, through it, over it, the dusty blue sky and the grass,
my daughters and I.
One girl plays CDs with wild, pained adolescent lyrics;
one sleeps.
Air rushes around us, circling warily.
August, and the peach stands, the melon stands wave their crazily spelled signs at us,
bold gashes of hand-painted letters: RED TOMS. FRESH. CORN 4 EARS $1.
The earth hurls its energy at us in dripping fruit
and screaming crickets.
The car groans when I brake, but leaps to the cruise control
as we plan to dye my hair blonde for Halloween,
the road revolving under our wheels.
A grass fire blows black across the highway
smoke burning the backs of our throats.
August with the shadow of September already on it,
drying leaves, dying savannah.
We hit the other side of the valley, descend toward the bay,
and the breeze hits us, cooler, cooling.
The air conditioner reminds me of winter.
I flick the control closer to the red
and remember the coming rains.
8/15/96