“Mid-July”

The sun walks slow through golden haze, A sleepy hush in summer’s blaze. The skies are deep, the winds are shy, And time drips soft from mid-July. Leaves don’t rustle, birds don’t race, Even the clouds take up less space. A cricket hums, a distant sigh— The world leans back in mid-July. Dreams half-formed in humid air, Hope and longing everywhere. We wait, we wish, we don’t know why— Something shifts in mid-July.