I went outside to sit in the warmth, To drink in the heavy heat pouring down. I took books with me, half a dozen, truly, And I turned them over, page after page. The clouds moved in, scattering moments of cold, As those warm rays are held back, I wonder If I should go inside, but instead I wait For the shade to pass into light again, that distant fire felt. A chapter of fiction, a few poems about Being somewhere else, and I just want to be here On this deck, feeling burned by the sun and Uncomfortable by the things that tread overhead. My dog scuttles up beside me, I called him From playing in the garden. I'm going to plant Some seeds today. The wind picks up and he leans Into my legs, a force of warmth and smiles. "Have you read the one about writing yet?" His eyes ask me and I shake my head, almost Done with the poetry about being somewhere, I watch the birds drink from the broken sprinkler below. I don't think the sun is coming back. But he leans A little harder, m