Shower damp, supported by warmth,
you put on shirt, shorts, sandals.
Hearing twitters in the leaves,
you think about birds,
their secret language,
their brief intense lives.
Suffocating in viscous humidity,
struggling to move, to breathe,
salt sweat stinging your eyes.
On the radio, reports
of triple-digit temperatures,
vanishing Arctic ice.
Overhead the fan whirls, blurs.
Covers cast aside, you dream
of tarantulas hitchhiking north
followed by deer ticks, ash borers, fire ants.
You dream of vetch and daisy fields,
of Great Pond, loon-inhabited, spring-fed.
Longtime Maine journalist Christina Diebold lives in
Midsummer in Maine
By Christina Diebold