Robert Beveridge ______________________________ Cold in July Even the birds have forgotten How not to shiver; Canadian breeze entered Without a knock, picked up Erie steam. The geese No longer fly north. Old-timers postulate The distance of Earth From Sun is growing, Forever growing, a gradual Shift from the night-time Of summer to the dawn Of the new ice age. They sit Before July fires, birch, Maple, ash, sip Heady concoctions of wine, Cinnamon, cardamom. Only the steelworkers And the guy on his bulldozer At the garbage dump Are warm.
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