Another white-hot angry dawn
Is marching up the sky
To enhance the reputation
Of a whiter-hot July.
And the mists across the lowland
In the fan-rays read their end,
As the weeds, relieved of dew-drops
Imperceptibly unbend.
The scarecrow holds one arm across
His unprotected eyes,
And stares in fascination
At the light-stirred, vicious flies.
One more ferocious brassy dawn
Goes striding up the sky
To pour a molten section
For the structure that’s July.
by Ray Romine Friday, July 6, 1945
