A summer of charred leaves, of hail at times
the clockwork of unseen rain gone quiet,
like a cricket overwhelmed by heat –
It may be a hidden marker of the solstice –
light insomnia when it’s still time to turn a page
and you get carried away, effortlessly, into the next day.
Just barely past midnight
– I am greeted by the insanity of birds
set
to batten down the gates of dawn with trills.
An ad hoc a capella, its sounds to be translated into words,
if only we knew the cipher of this scattering
they pour over the scorched earth –
the secret key to sleeplessness.
