Outside to fry
On concrete skillet,
Served up for
Flying patrons
To feast upon.
Unruly clouds,
Men with shirts
Raised above
Bloated stomachs
Stepping over
Ruined promises
Wedged in dirt
Recently dried.
Storms descend
And winds pick up
Painting everything
In a fresh coat
Of loose earth
Before the sky
Furrows its brow,
Unleashing
Torrents and squalls,
Retribution;
Those beneath
Consider
Good omens
For fatter stock.
We no longer bake,
But rather cool,
Steam rising
From our bodies
As the air
Becomes less
Excited
And more
Morose
As life retreats,
Knowing what
Will come
As cool breezes
Are harbingers
Of stillness.
Composed 08/10/2012
Author’s Note: When the summer ends, you really feel it in the air. It happens around August, and it really hits you in September. Come October, many Mongolians still say it is autumn, but it’s pretty much winter for us not used to the freezing air.
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