I am driving home.

The waiting is the worst thing.

Summer arrived with a wump, blasting heat into the day.

There are crows in the corn and a nip in the air.

It is a haunting, the absence in my day.

She slips through my hands like warm water, gentle and trickling, but cannot be held.

Again she sleeps, beer fueled slumber. And I know she won’t sleep for too long, the phone will ring, and she may or may not rise. I ask…

Some call it “grit”, but I am more invested than that.

It’s a cold spring rain.