summer = cottleston pie

I know it's summer
when the muted hum of the mowers wakes me
the heavy scent of manure slipping through the insulation
on cold, wet breeze
to coat my eyelashes and the back of my throat
A call like chanticlear echoing in the empty dawn, silly guinea-fowl scatter
The road-roller rattling the windows as dust kicks up around the lilac trees
they're trying to flatten the potholes that only reappear
when the rainwater washes into ill-formed ditches
Summer is the smell of horses sweating in their pasture
blinking, sleepy-eyed, too hot to nudge the flies from their fetlocks
Summer is the sting of warm, ripe tomato juice in my mouth
An angry whine of 4-wheelers, like frustrated mechanical hornets gathering.
With summer comes the squealing of chlorine-coated children
splashing in the campsite pool
and the incessant prickle of mosquitoes, swarming
Each one, a greedy proboscus probing -
It doesn't hurt if you let them gather like leaf-mold on your skin
each droplet of blood glistening inside their bloated bellies