Robert Beveridge Cold in July

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.