The air hangs heavy,
a wool blanket no one asked for.
Cicadas buzz like loose wires,
the sun leans in too close.
Dogs sprawl belly-up on tile,
tongues out, dreams slowed to syrup.
Children chase shade that keeps
slipping further down the street.
We call it Sirius season—
the bright hound star blazing
beside our weary sun,
as if even the heavens are panting.
Food sours faster, tempers quicker,
but in the stillness,
time stretches—
long, golden, unbearable,
and almost holy.
The dog days arrive,
as they always have:
to remind us we’re small,
soft creatures
living under a great and
relentless fire.