wheels whir and tick
a cyclist passes
dust wakes, rolls over, settles back to sleep
leaves stir and whicker
a late cicada razzes
thunder walks, growls over hills, shudders into heat
by the time I've drunk this sweet cold tea,
and read again your letter that arrived at noon,
fat drops will fall,
then hail
winds will swarm and track
across my face and over seas to shores of sand and lightning-fired glass,
and on and on to where, beyond bulwarks, your heart must—oh, must—still beat
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