It’s beastly hot for man if not for beast,
Where I teeter on an upturned bench
(its seat is now its back, its back, its seat)
And gaze across the swollen marsh, as

An egret stalks the shallows—
Strikes—shakes—swallows. 
Swifts skim the mud smudged surface
In pursuit of unseen insects. 

Omen clouds conglomerate,
Distant thunder mumbles, then
Drizzle turns the pond to lace,
And the temperature plummets

For beast and man alike. In no rush
Am I to quit my precarious perch
Upon this tottering upturned pew 
In this mizzly sylvan church.