The air rises with discontent,
Soon the trapped reeds and cattails seem to explode with equal momentum,
It is the illusion of scorched objections,
Which follow the dragonfiles around this humid marshland,
Such towers of those grasses that'll reach some six feet towards the sunlight,
With flying insects being chased,
Around this windless plain by dragonflies which hunt with precision,
They'll all flutter in fury between those sun weathered forms,
Nature with her instinctive tendencies,
Of being tethered or break before the cooling dusk,
Preserve this summer mirage that reality presents,
More cool air seems to wave away this sublime furnace,
And the seabreeze is felt on all our beautiful faces,
That kiss and breathe us back to life.
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