Sky Ships

Shimmering heat shafts, like twirling transparent
ballerinas, rise off the molten asphalt pavement.
They dance up and up until the dry desert
wind whisks them away, captives in the
clutches of the afternoon's misery.

These early days of Sonoran heat consume
life.  Leisure activities only last week
were calendared for any day, any time.  No
longer.  Human activity is defined by the clock:
sunrise until 10 a.m. and sunset until the last
strands of light fade away.  In between, even
the shade is inhospitable, completely devoid
of kindness.

My response to this invading annoyance is to
sit in the cool of my study near the large
windows and watch a slide show of
contented clouds float by.  Imperceptible
movement.  No rush.  A gallery of ruffled
white smudges on a soft blue canvas.
The most effort expended is their gradually
changing shapes.  Great puffy white billows
do form the most creative images.  I swear,
one looked just like Jimmy Durante.

The heat is here.  Its heritage is much longer
than mine, than humankinds generally.  I
am a guest.  For that reason, I temper my
complaints and imagine myself in the cool
layers of atmosphere, napping on a soft, fluffy cloud,
riding the great sky ships into distant dreams.