Dispatch #161

at the brink of meaning

          Summer Sequence

Between power lines
storm clouds buckle 
and drift. 
        Great blue heron, 
rare omen, 
banks into a plume of rain 
fogging the horizon. 
        Dizzy for a phrase
to make the day cohere,
I sit in shade
and take dictation from a field. 
Anything for relief 
from time 
and how time discombobulates 
in the pounding sun.
        For relief,
the green streak of a dragonfly 
suspended in haze. 
And cold rain—
my mouth open
at the brink of meaning.