Heat Wave Poem by June Walker

A song thrush rubs her chest into dry dust.
Her beak opens - fledgling begging;
her tongue, a sharp thorn.
A white film covers her closed eyes.
She fans her tail like the main sail
of a yacht, searching for a breeze.
Her wings lift and shiver
in a momentary mirage
of cool North winds.
Now she lies deathly still,
blending brown into brown.
Ghost ship.
My tongue feels like a twig
in my throat.
Suddenly, the bird's chest heaves.
One eye opens in a wink.