day five of thirty

From today's batch, I hate this one the least:

These are not clouds. They are ghosts
of water buffalo, pregnant, lumbering slowly
across the sky for two days now, the humid air
so thick with their sweat I must push it aside
like curtains just to leave the house. The moon
is waxing; I can feel it, but cannot see it
for the clouds. I come home and close only
the screen door, so I can relish the smell.
The charge is driving the whole town mad.
There's pollen covering everything and
the wisteria has all exploded at once.
I go outside in the night, throw back my head
and bark at the sky but there comes
no moob, no rain, no relief.