The lion yawns, mane-crowned, teeth as long as days. On the fords of the Tiber, Sextilus takes the name of Gaius Octavius. In eight years a son will be born to Jerusalem; eight generations live in Pax Romana. It is the season of wheat and wine, and fire signs are in the sky. Harvest is upon us, but not reaping. The earth crumbles warm between our fingers, dust falls in lazy circles. In Illinois, crates fill with peaches, gold-pink, plush and intoxicating. In the east, a curtain falls. In Central Park, a quarter shy of a million souls go to Graceland. For reasons we can’t quite discern, we think of California, of boardwalks and hills the color of old newsprint. We think of sand, of glass bottles and wood guitars.
The petals have gone from the poppies; the grass is burnt-yellow, seeds fall. The sun is corona-gold; the earth is Midas-touched. Hiroshima burns. A child in Nagasaki is flying a kite. Smoke drifts from a neighbor’s yard, or perhaps the memory of smoke. The memory is of charcoal and beer, hammocks and flags. Sweat is gone from the air, and September’s breath is on the wind, carrying leaves that fall too soon.
It is the season of wheat and wine, and fire signs are in the sky. Harvest is upon us, but not reaping.
Not yet.
Not quite.
Killah Priest – Black August (Daylight) || 2003/Black August
