| Loon |
[Jun. 30th, 2018|10:46 pm]
rejectomorph
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Wilted. But I am not dried out and crackling like the leaves on the oak trees. Desiccated, they flutter down with every breeze, and are strewn across the ground in a brown parody of autumn. In the dark I step on them now and then, and hear aloud crunch, or one will catch on my shoe and be dragged across the concrete with a screech that sends any feral cats nearby scampering. It must be to them like fingernails on a blackboard are to humans.
My wilting is like that of the flowers, which remain soft, for now, but oddly damp. I'm oddly damp. I expect to be oddly damp for some time to come. This will be the hottest night yet this year, and the thought of it fills me with dread. Last night was barely tolerable, and tonight I might go mad, rip off my clothes and go running through the quiet streets, horrifying the raccoons.
The next time the temperature will go below 70 degrees is predicted to be early next Tuesday morning, in the hour before dawn. By then I'll be a raving lunatic. In fact I hear the moon calling me now. I must go out and answer it. |
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