Nicole Explains It All

The sky above the mountains
is a soft, bruised purple,
the first hint of August light
just beginning to sharpen their edges.
It’s not cool, not really.
The heat of yesterday never truly left,
it just waits in the asphalt,
in the stone of the Craftsman bungalows.
A lone car whispers down a silent street.
Sprinklers tick on, a sudden, rhythmic pulse,
showering the dusty leaves of the bougainvillea,
the scent of wet earth rising for a moment.
The air is still.
Even the palm fronds hold their breath.
From an open window, the low murmur
of a news radio,
the clink of a ceramic mug.
This is the quietest moment,
the city holding a single, slow breath
before the sun claims the peaks
and the long, hot day begins.