To the southeast, thin streaks of lightening and deep rumbles make a feeble promise, but the clouds do not back this up. To my left sits a beading water glass with no ice left in the container. I sit very still. It’s the safest thing to do. Perhaps, now you understand why southerners talk slow and walk even slower. I can feel my higher brain functions sizzling.
As promised all the heavy yard work has long since been done and now I can walk on crispy grass, which, thankfully doesn’t grow. I do keep the flowerpots, berry bushes and tomato plants juiced.
There is a breeze–which is better than no breeze–but its dragon breath. The clouds have dispersed in minutes, fried by Sol. The sky is blue-white. And the drought continues.
I knew it was going to be this way: a cold Spring equals a hot Summer, as the old folks say.
I do most of my composing outside, but I think I’ll take the rest of the day off. I…can’t…write…another….word.