The Heat was Hot, and the Ground was Dry

The heat is knocking power out a while.
The highest is the Valley’s one eighteen,
As if the earth itself had put a sheen
On all the outside world, that from a mi-/le
Out of any town you’d see the roads,
The people, and the buildings waving in
The style of mirages.  Any thin
And weaker movement, hidden, under loads
Of overheated weariness, I fear,
Are never long enough to give ‘em life,
And any last mirages to the fife
Of my approaching Piper disappear,
Revealing now a world that I had not
Sufficiently described as being hot.