The Sky Stocks

They say it's the hottest summer on record.

I feel it in the crunch of the grass, it's brown limbs dry and dissected into the dust.

Meanwhile the blackbirds drift between gate posts, landing in lines like a gaggle of Brokers. They sweep and tweet in earnest, settling only when the line is still.

There is no wind besides that which the birds bend.

This heat rids our world of sound, stunts even the flow of thought between its pressed thumbs. A biome where only weeds can grow: colonies of clovers and dandelion driveways.

Our world imitates its art. A dry parchment where only excess ink can float. Cleansed when it is hot enough to burn.