Heating

Great clouds pile against the mountains but don't approach our sun-drenched locale. I think about how nice the shadows they spread must be, and how cool the shaded glens where streams cascade and fill the pine-scented air with their music. Here all I hear is the humping of the crickets and the dripping of my sweat.

OK, so it isn't that bad yet. This is only the beginning of June, after all. It's going to be much worse in a few weeks. I'll try to appreciate the mere discomfort while it lasts, as there will soon be great misery—and raisins, of course. I'd find the heat easier to endure were I fond of raisins, but every raisin I behold makes me miss the grape it was, just as June makes me miss May. Time is becoming as withered as those crumpled clouds which keep their distance.