I chambered July into my gun.
A woman stopped her bicycle, twisted to look west.
Another wrote the word monsoon on the blue horizon.
Together they combed the sky for clouds trying to glean rain.
My gun was a starter’s pistol.
The bicyclist reached the dissipating Rio Grande.
The turbulent heat ignored the night’s blanket of darkness.
The city lights went black unable to condition enough interiors.
My gun barked at the sky.
A second bicyclist arrived from the Pacific.
A roiling gray cloud on a miles long string tailed her bicycle.
A broken comb-tooth popped the cloud over Central & Fourth.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
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