Beach Writer in the Rocky Mountains

AUGUST

by Alice M. Batzel

I turn the calendar page and pause.

Today, August begins.

Scarce is cool summer shade.

Sweltering dry heat lingers.

Farmers' fields and home gardens are in harvest.

Kitchen counters creek and groan

with heavy ripened fruits and vegetables

awaiting hot water baths and pressure canners.

Distant summer fires spill over mountains.

The evening sun turns red.

Smoke billows skyward.

The horizon is a purple haze.

Absent is the laughter of children

running through sprinklers in the summer yard.

A dear old friend's funeral this past week.

His granddaughter holds a new babe in her arms.

I water my small garden with a mask on my face.

Smoke creeps in silence and chokes me.

Little birds briefly chirp and dance at my feet,

but soon take flight.

Nature's flames burn closer,

displacing many each day.

I awakened to flames invading the valleys.

A nearby farm is lost to the blaze.