Hot to cold.
Hot to cold.

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,


Torrents and squalls,


Those beneath


Good omens

For fatter stock.

We no longer bake,

But rather cool,

Steam rising

From our bodies

As the air

Becomes less


And more


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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