Aug. 2nd, 2010

neverspent: vintage art of ferns (Default)
It was another scorcher, as they say. We've been having record-breaking heat; today it reportedly felt like 115 F. I believe it. There are many flavors of heat, and we are connoisseurs. When you open the door to the outside and the air that hits you reminds you, without exaggeration, of opening the oven door to check a pan of cookies, that's a certain kind of heat.

I'm not complaining. The heat can be deadly, but it's not wrong. It's August; August is hot around here. One of my pet peeves is when people claim that a weather event proves or disproves global warming. Just because it's unusually hot or cold one particular week in one part of the world doesn't necessarily mean anything about climate.

But I digress from my aimless rambling. Heat. Even the hardy vines and trees will start to wilt, and you see squirrels splayed out on branches, panting while they rest. It doesn't seem to affect the hummingbirds, though. They zip around, little surprises as ever.

I sat tonight, looking out and listening to the cicadas thrum, watching the sky turn from blue-white to blue-grey with a broad pink streak through it. Two evenings in a row, we've had dark clouds and thunder, but the sky is almost clear by dark, and if any rain falls, it has evaporated before it reaches the ground.

I think one of the reasons I'm at odds with summer is that here in the city, the way I must live and work, I'm not living summer. I'm just getting through it. Summer lasts many months and the heat can be miserable, but it's full of so much amazement. The evenings are long and if you can pay attention, time stops. Summer in the South is meant to be lived slowly.

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neverspent: vintage art of ferns (Default)
neverspent

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