Dog days are pivots of silence, siestes of long afternoon light. Even birds and bees sleep now in shade they’ve made their shelters, yet our cars on the avenue dance accidentally: the streetcar skates on its rails; a driver guns his Solara past. The neutral ground is never neutral. Avec violence: Heat rises. Water rises. Throat of the Great Dog rises with a light toward fall when our men will lace their cleats, puff up their chests and tackle each other sans armes, and we’ll cheer. We’ll cheer. We’ll hear the song of summer stars shift in the leaves of the trees. We’ll think the tension of the dance has ended, that the stars have stopped pulling our strings. The air will cool and the waters recede, but at dusk the cicadas still sing: le chien le chien le chien.
choreography: la danse de l'été
