When the tyrant slowly relents,

calls off his silent-snarling hounds

of heat and slides his arrows

into sunset’s quiver;

when his subduing powers wane

and the summer world’s oppression is relieved

the cicadas sing. Their crescendos

rattle out a siren, buzzing freedom

through a plum and honey sky.

And here and there a cool breeze eases

down clean and light, free and brief.

Published online at AvocetReview.com