Dog days are upon us, those dreaded summer weeks of…
They made a sound like wind
coming to life, ignition that always
startled me, though I knew
the swallows would be sleeping there.
They hid where I wanted to hide,
up in the rafters, up above the loft,
above the broken tobacco sticks,
unstrung bales of hay, cracked tires,
barbed edges of nails, staples, and wire.