The First 100 Degrees

April ends like a lion,
In sleeveless straps, condenser coils,
Vapors and interrogation lights.

The hills turn gravy brown before our eyes.
The sane are lined up leaving as we speak.
The motorcycles revved up for another golden ride.

Already night garages display chassis and weights,
And orange igloo coolers are strapped to pickup trucks.
Already women grimace at the scent of creosote.

The water soon will boil when left outside.
Our breath to us will feel as cold as snow.
The contoured dirt will be a bed of coal.

But the mesquite is happy, like a mother,
And the birds are laughing, like babies.
The clouds write joy in flourishes like fountain pens.

For we all feel in heat a promised freedom,
A rising as the spirit moves to dance,
A radiance that moves us to its stillpoint,

Tells us we are safe, in the perfect place
And position
In the largenesses of space.