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