it’s coming

In the scorching heat, the thick
Air is frozen, the birds fly low,
Silent, the sweaty citizens move
About the bleak streets, slow
As oversize flies.

On his shabby porch at the edge of
Town, Vigilante focuses his telescope
At the blurry border of the visible
Landscape humming something
Guttural and unsettling.

He pours whiskey generously
Into an opaque glass, shakes
The ice cubes, takes a good swig,
Quacks with content scratching
His unshaven, prominent chin
And begins to wait.