rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Another sky of burnished vapors, the air again so heavy that it seems the fragile plants would be crushed by its weight. Heat browns the grass, and the arid soil sends up puffs of dust at each footfall. Strands of spider silk hover, visible only when back-lit by the hazed sun. Most of them, I discover only when I feel them brush my face. Small birds manage somehow to fly through this thickened atmosphere, but no breeze stirs it. The afternoon itself becomes lassitude.

The day's declining hours bring some relief, as the clouds thin, becoming patches of white cirrus floating in pale blue. The sun at the horizon is an orange glow, like a fire in the pine woods. Dusk deepens the lake of sky, the few remaining wisps of cloud flush pink and mauve. The evening birds chirp as a cooler air arrives, though as yet it barely stirs. The crickets have begun to sing. I place a hose to irrigate the drooping sourgrass, and the trickling sound is as cooling as the falling night. Together, they drive briefly from my mind the thought of the enervating summer's inevitable advance.

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