Summer Drought
by J.P. Irvine
Yet, ere the moon, as brass the heaven turns,
The cruel sun smites with unerring aim,
The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns,
And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame!
On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high,
Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no more:
The strident shrilling of a locust nigh
Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before.
Note: I found this gem in the Hawk section of Comstock's Handbook of Nature Study.