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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 )
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 )
