The imperfect face of the man, the sun reading it like braille
hard working overalls speckled with flecks of mud
as he sits on the front porch taking one last drink of silence
in the heat of the day before dusk settles in.
When the sun hides, the insects gather to start their screeching.
Their rituals commence in a thousand layers of sounds.
Later at midnight, there are no disturbances, just the rustling wind
as he walks to where the East-bound road meets the winding
gravel that shoots North toward Memphis like a weaving
snake making its way to the underbrush.
These summer nights in Mississippi can cause a man to dream.