Sunday, July 10, 2011

Flying Things

Forgive me, neighbors, but it's painterly--laundry pinned on the short, taut line. Humidity's down, and light filters dry, giving press to yesterday's dinner-cloth.
White cottons snap the breeze, his sun-colored shirt waves empty arms akimbo and small underthings inhale and shift like prayer-flags. They billow, exhale, salute the sky, the hour, the morning, the July Sunday.