I am waiting for the weather to cool.
There is still too much heat for the seeds to survive.
The dogs have been digging at the guava tree, exposing roots.
Branches are burning in the sun.
I worry that I cannot save it.
I still feel the shift of your weight in the morning, the tug of the sheet.
I had hoped for a marine layer, even this far from the water.
I mopped the floor.
I swept the porch.