The languid breeze tunes the trees,
rustling their emerald leaves,
their limbs whispering ancient lullabies
to the bees
that hum along in honeyed harmony,
drunk on nectar
and daylight.
Cicadas buzz, syncopated techno electrics,
a tireless refrain that rises,
falls, rises again,
never rehearsed,
their scores born in the heat of noon.
Birdsong floats,
loose threads stitched
across a cerulean sky,
sparrows riffing jazz from telephone wires,
crows clicking bones to the rhythm,
gathering what's been dropped for rhythm's sake.
Even the grass joins in,
the dry scrunch under bare feet,
a soft, raspy cymbal
played by the soles of wanderers.
Spanish moss dances,
swaying lazily,
passing longing glances
towards the willow's limber ballet.
Crickets bow beneath dusk's curtain,
stringed legs chirping,
plucking gracefully,
a twilight metronome counting beats
between firefly flares.
Beneath it all,
the steady hot breath of the southern wind,
the exhale of the earth at her zenith,
drawling backroad red dirt prayers,
steady as a Sunday morning hymn,
summer, lowing it's own hallelujah.