Wispy shrouds of white

float across pastel eternities of blue.

Sporadic wafts of warm air,

bearing the bitter mustiness of fresh mowed grass,

buffet my sprawled body and clog my nose. 

What time is it?

Rude chills prickle up my bare arms

when gray shadows pass before Heaven’s beacon of fire

and block the summer heat rippling from its solitary high-borne post.

I turn my head. 

Tiny yellow-petaled mimics show upturned faces

where they alight quavering bladed fields of jade.

Practice will be hot.