A weak breeze arrives, but brings no cooling. It is itself like the exhalation of a fever victim, spreading contagion. Most of the night, clouds conceal the stars. Shiny bugs scurry across the hot pavement. Even a rare rustling of the leaves, however green they remain, sounds dry. Hidden by night, the whole forest could be desiccated, lying like heaped locust husks under the rainless clouds. Not so much as a flash of lightning or distant rumble of thunder enlivens these sultry hours. My displaced bones making my muscles generate their own excess of heat, I dread the onset of weariness which will force me to attempt sleep. I know that long misery awaits before I can succeed, and then the dreams will most likely be of oppression. I curse this July back to the hell from which it came.