The air ripples and waves with heat,
The way cords on a bass guitar bounce and float,
The way water can dip and climb without curling and crashing,
A quiet hum of a movement that has its eyes closed and breathes slowly.
The world is not dry or humid, but it is boiling,
It is melting and hypnotising,
A fever-dream in its heat which seems to pull you down into a deep, tired, yawning, sweat.
The sky is a rich blue,
Not electric, but just as bold,
Energetic and sprightful,
Yet chooses to be still and silent.
The grass is dry and alive,
Growing in ochre and chartreuse,
Refreshing like bitters in an ice cold drink,
Moving like an evening stretch in the temperate breeze,
Coiled trees stand in paralysed contortion,
They stare into the distance,
Content in being relic and quiet,
Swaying slightly, picturesque in their verdure.
Animals sprint in panting silence,
Like thin arrows through the thick air,
Motions like quick honey,
Or softly, statically, dozing into the summer embrace.
Sounds are muted,
The air is frozen in amber,
Time is held outside of itself in the pocket of earth before we categorized it as history,
When it simply was,
Untouched and uncontextualized,
Observed only by those who had no tenses or constructs only here and now.
Breathing air which is made of auburn earth,
Drowning in the deep arid ocean,
Submerged and embraced,
Sleeping, serene and tranquil.