Sweating It

Triple digit temperatures have arrived. I saw a dead butterfly on the back porch. Mosquitoes and earwigs are everywhere. The crickets' chirps are rapid, like the pulse of someone in terror. There's no terror in the night, though, only a sultry stillness that induces torpor. Should an ax murderer appear, I'd probably not even be able to rouse myself. Ah, well, I'd think, at least I won't feel so uncomfortably hot anymore.


( Sunday Verse )