Winter

In the dying hours of the day
heat and dust hang heavy in the air. 
So thick you could slice through it with a knife. 
An unnatural haze obscures
the brilliant blue sky and
even the sun seems dulled. 
The evergreen trees droop
in the oppressive heat,
and the meager grass crackles underfoot,
the few flowers that brave the harsh winter
are taking strain.
Everything seems to move in slow motion,
or not at all. 
The usually busy,
chattering parrots are silent,
and the herons that haunt
the edges of the river and dams
have gone still,
searching out the pathetic shade. 
Soft, stick-like,
their bluish grey bodies
obscured by the leaves.
A lone crane glides overhead,
crying that peculiar baby’s wail,
so distinctive,
disappearing into the haze.
The horses doze
uncomfortably in their stables,
tails swish idly,
their bodies dark with sweat. 
Even the sound,
the consistent background buzz
of the nearby freeway
seems muted,
the people, those who can,
have removed to the comfort
of their air-conditioned homes and offices.