The Mourning Doves are washed white
In the summer summer sunlight.
The dog kicks up dust,
Chewing on a rib bone,

All new blinking eyes,
Now wriggle like the arc of the flame,
Up and up and up,
Thrilled to be alive,
Seeing, seeing, seeing it all.

Young romance lock lips in public,
Accentuated by the heat that loosens
Survival instincts, sweat on skin,
Passion, ardor, ecstatic energy.

The fire in all grows, grows, and grows.

This is not the time to be tame, or quiet, or passive.
Action’s climax happens here, fruition, harvest,
The good part of the story,
The dance by the drumbeat understood by all.
Summer Summer, Summer Summer.

No living thing hibernates,
No ember hides in the ashes,
No isolation to withdraw into.

Today is when we meet the maker, sword in hand,
As the drumbeat picks up,
Fingers play faster on the white keys,
Roaring like rolling thunder,
Pushing, pushing, pushing-
Beating like an orgasm,

Today is the unforgettable moments,
The day to be proud,
The day to make mistakes,
This is chance at its most fortuitous stage,

Before the Fall, Fall, Fall.