Rigor mortis

On my daily walk I notice just how much green has already turned to shades of orange-turned-brown. A premature dying. The August heat making leaves crunchy, and thousands of dehydrated pine needles waiting to drop with the right gust of wind. They dangle, hanging by a vein.

English Ivy climbs up a tree, clinging despite being stuck in a kind of rigor mortis, dry as a bone.

I can sense the desperation, waiting for the sweet relief of another rain, I imagine the plants scream out in a chorus of tiny voices, “Moisturize me, moisturize me”, just like a character from Dr. Who.

If only they could hang on a little longer, stick it out for another week or so, then maybe their pleas would be answered.