The clouds have thickened and the heat has persisted. Something similar to a sunrise is happening, but it consists mostly of satin banners of light hung on gray ramparts. The crows and jays greet it noisily nevertheless. Crickets continue to sing as the growing light reveals night-built webs containing dark spiders and, sometimes, their still-struggling prey. Things happen while the moon is gone. I hear a lawn sprinkler sputter into action down the block, and a slight breeze flutters the mulberry tree's deep green leaves. All night has passed to bring only this brief breath of cooling air, soon to be steamed away. The vapor from the lawn sprinkler will appear later among those white clouds now catching the sun's first rays.
Sunday Verse
Pastoral
by William Carlos Williams
The little sparrows
hop ingenuously
about the pavement
quarreling
with sharp voices
over those things
that interest them.
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in
on either hand
and no one knows
whether we think good
or evil.
Meanwhile,
the old man who goes about
gathering dog-lime
walks in the gutter
without looking up
and his tread
is more majestic than
that of the Episcopal minister
approaching the pulpit
of a Sunday.
These things
astonish me beyond words. 
