Heatwave

A breeze rustles reeds,

greens almost white

caught in the incessant sun.

Even the blue of the sky

seems faded. Too many

washes.

Are the birds there?
In the trees?

Insects climb sharp

grass. I hear

their steps.

My eyes ache.

I glaze over.

Over and over

and over

I tap at keys

and wish I had

remembered my glasses.