I write poetry in my dreams but seem to have a hard time in real waking life.
The rain has stopped, leaving the Queen City wearing a drenched, heavy ball gown of steam and drooping branches; a chill in the night air; the scent of asphalt, crushed crepe myrtle petals and a heavy indescribable scent that clings to skin, of smog and leaves and the wings of green bugs.
It is summer again, fully ripened, burst from the vine.
(Photo: Skyline seen from the parking deck of Kings by Target, sunset, July 10.)
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