Tenting In August

I'm tired,
beyond normal sleep,
or normal night visions.

I can't even fantasize.

The clouds above hide
the meteor shower
from my eyes
(I missed it again.)
My sigh hushes the crickets
for moments
then they forget I breathe.
(Or do I?)

The August dry grass
pricks my back and I
stare into heavenly moisture.
(Oh that I could evaporate and
rest so close to the stars.)

I allow myself to settle
to the bottom of the food chain,
ignoring the prick of mosquito
needles in my flesh.
Let them take what they wish,
I'll not linger long.

The dawn birds sing,
the clouds rush to dissolve somewhere else.
I fail to sleep another night,
just another among countless others.

As the pink dawn brushes my form
I begin to dream
of floating in the sky.

While a tree frog sings in my ear.