Sun salutation begins without shades.
Hair fallen in to pools of rust catalyst,
coolant, hydraulic drips, and dust.
Sweater oil saturated
from months of curbs and slush,
the weeds are sprouting now.
Dry asphalt and breeze dries dripping nose,
in the shade it is still cold.
The fused bolt lets go with a bark.
Fingers spasm. Throb and lock
around the wrench's shaft. Breath and spit,
rust dust, and rubber grounds flecks hit lips.
Groan. Groans. Together. "The river
never froze and may never again,"
said Chibup to Westir (the two seagulls
that always perch atop the two lamp-posts
at the pier walk);
overheard, but not dictated.
Sneeze hard enough to bang forehead
loud enough to get the neighbors dog woofing.
The clock answers both the same,
a pendulous and deep chime.
Hands faster. No mosquitoes, yet.
Everything is easier in reverse.
Is that Mars? Venus? Helicopter.
The sun settles in for dinner. Time to leave.
The torque wrench clicks,
muscles burn in a heat
Spring promises will come.
Glow in the dusk, the bolt, the movement,
the wrench chirp and click of Summer crickets.
