Torrid

[rejectomorph]

One would think that for the beginning of my ninth year of this journal I'd have something of significance prepared, so that this wouldn't be just another post complaining of the heat. But here I am at a loss for words that don't sweat, even after I've cowered in the air conditioned house all day.

Dusk will arrive shortly. The pines, as though painted on the day's last blaze, are utterly still. The birds, little active since the brief cool hours of early morning, have fallen silent. Even the feral kittens lie torpid on the lawn instead of engaging in their usual evening play. My own most strenuous act is to scratch the fresh mosquito bites I got while I slept. Night promises little relief.

I grow tired of the whine of the air conditioner, and want to be outdoors, but there more mosquitoes lurk and the ground releases the day's heat to the leaden air. Not even July yet. The thought of August is unbearable. I know why I like to hear the wind.



Sunday verse

The Sound of Trees

by Robert Frost


I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.