like dead in the middle
of a gust that was whipping along
the plains and kites dived,
birds were puzzled,
cumulus nimbus stalled.
The heat that summer day
grew stale— idle.
Grandpa said that was kind of
the beginning of the end.
Folks didn’t know what to make of it
still don’t. The sun just hangs there—
nights don’t much cool off either.
Grandpa tacked the wind mill blades
on the shed. Said there was no use
for it except ornamentation, and life was
mostly bland these days.
2011© Michael A. Wells