It isn't helping that it's eighty degrees in the house right now. It's even hotter outside although the sun is already setting. It's likely to be an hour before I can open the windows, and I'm considering turning on the air conditioner, although if I cool the house to, say, 78 degrees, it will probably be two hours or more before I can open the windows. Ah, to be walking on the beach at Santa Barbara, smelling the tar on the sand. I was there once, but I doubt I'll ever be there again.
The Night, The Porch
by Mark Strand
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.