The Wag

There was a bit of confusion
This morning.
The last round of late night thunderstorms
Left everything soaked.
The summer sun
Warmed the ground too fast, so
Steam was rising at 5am,
Making the air so thick
That it felt like a fog had settled in.
Take away the oppressive heat
And this had the makings of a morning on the moors.

The sun seemed powerless to
Cut through the haze.
The morning critters, usually, scurrying about
Took leave of their waking routines.
Yet, like lighthouses guiding ships in rough waters,
My two neighbors
Threw out signals for all to hear.

“Can you believe?…”
“Look at their garage…”
“My feet ache…”

Sirens, however, they are not.
While the rest of the world
Practiced the fine art of sleep,
These two wagged their tongues
For no purpose other than the wag.

Momentarily, I lost my bearings
Heading towards their beacon
Through the heavy summer air.
Thankfully, clarity returned
Before I was taken into their straits of gossip,
Allowing my dog and me to venture
Deeper into the soup.

The confusion?…
Just listen, you’ll wonder why too.

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