Broiled

There are wispy white clouds all afternoon, and then the sun sets and the clouds turn a particular shade of pink that makes me want watermelon, of which I have none. What I have plenty of once night falls is insects. Moths come crowding around my back porch light, fluttering and releasing moth dust, and the outside sink is full of large, stranded, flying beetles of some sort, and a couple of immense spiders who may or may not be there to dine on the stranded beetles. Other, smaller bugs are hanging about too, and a crane fly pops into view now and then only to vanish again into the deepening dark beyond the porch light's reach. The evening air is utterly still, and does not feel the least bit cool. The dog days are here already. The good news is that, by Sunday, the daily Fahrenheit highs may drop back down into double digits. Ah, how I look forward to merely sweltering.

Now, off with the machine and I'll turn the room dark. The resulting sense of cooling is merely a psychological effect, most likely, but it helps, a bit.