Heatwaved III

the trill screech

of a thousand cicadas

is louder

than the fan

that circulates

all the air

around in circles

around me

around my room

somewhere in the night

far off thunder peals

as it rolls

along a remote

and dark horizon

it creeps

along the edge

of a distant storm front

you can almost

hear the relief

expressed by a multitude

of plant, shrubs and trees

they all know

they all herald

the coming

of a brief respite

as the change nears

the air becomes;

moist

damp

muggy

bed sheets become stickier

and clingy

the air becomes;

heavy

as the pressure drops

and

beaded perspiration

now drips