August is the dreary, immobilizing heat at the height of summer weariness
and languid romantics.
It is alone on the trail in the woods,
arms outstretched,
head thrown back,
against the pavement with sleep in mind,
arms outstretched,
a hand dangling over the edge into the pool.
It is feet dragging through the dirt below the swing,
back and forth,
beneath the dome of stars and the hazy mahogany clouds sauntering past the burnt hue of the nearly colorless sky,
and the heat lightning and the blue and green glow that rests upon the blackened treetops that surround you on all sides
on a canoe in the middle of the lake as mosquitos nip at your skin,
but you care little because you feel just about as small in comparison to the universe as they do in comparison to you,
and you wish that you were as hungry to bite at the world beyond the horizon's trees as they are.
They ***** your skin for the blood that lies beneath it.
You only wish you had the courage to strike the earth.