When temperatures reach
the century mark, humidity
pounding as a relentless hammer
slung by a deranged fool

I find myself thinking of juncos,
those furtive winter birds
flocked in fields of memory
foraging for dear life.

I remind myself that seasons
change, and each epoch
presents unique burdens,
life that calls us to rise

above the day-to-day strife
to endure with song
despite death threats embraced,
enabled, by the complacent

those heralds looking backward
to a time when grace
was not possible, when liberty
was unimaginable

a mere dream that finally formed
America – imperfect – yet
in process, a hopeful hymn
sung in opposition to hate

by common folk, stellar
creatures who detest corruption,
who have sense enough
to resist the extremes

conjured by fear, diluted
with false patriotism
and a reckless abandonment
of anything decent.