August days in Pennsylvania are hot and lazy. Swinging gently back and forth on our old wooden porch swing, I sip from a glass of ice-cold tea and absently pet the old gray cat resting beside me.
Shimmering heat-waves radiate
From the sun-drenched earth
As Old Gray Cat sleeps peacefully
On the quilt-covered porch swing.
Honey bees buzz among the sweet-scented clover,
And locusts rasp their summer note,
Their monotonous drone echoed
In Old Gray Cat’s gentle snores.
Unobserved, the giant tiger swallowtail
Silently drifts along on the sultry air,
While three gauzy white moths
Pirouette over the wildflowers.
Suddenly, a robin dips and arcs across the lawn
To perch on the white picket fence.
Catching a glimpse of his ancient enemy,
He chirps an agitated warning.
Old Gray Cat momentarily awakens
And lifts his head to sniff the air.
But the porch swing is too cozy,
The sun hypnotically warm.
Tucking in his paws,
The cat sighs and closes his eyes.
Some other time the flicker of wings may entice him,
But not today.
©2011 Pamela D. Williams