Some. Summer.

The framing of time.

Too much. Too little.

The warped wobble of tinkered away mornings.

The deliberate settling of your self into your body.

The dogs finally quiet and then your mind has time to wander.

Summer is a long taunt.

A bird chirping too early in the dawn stirs you awake.

Later in the day the same bird’s song is pleasant.

There is no short road, nor no long.

The new tires will be old tires soon.

Your hands are tired from yesterday’s clippings and pullings.

You appreciate the simple day and await the coming complexities.

Meanderings lead to time sensitivities.

Or is it time sensitivities lead to meanderings…

Some summer day.

Summarized in a poem.

Some. Summer.

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