Since we've lived through so much recent rain, it's a joy to see the sun again.
And, boy is it summer!
Those days when the sidewalks melt and the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno that hangs just low enough to scorch all in its view.
Even the sky fades. What was a deep blue pallet, is bleached and faded -- a pale, listless, faint type of blue -- like a young girl's favorite jeans.
On these days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of dust drift, swirl and dance like angry ancient spirits. They float quietly reminding those around them that nature has long ruled this time.On these days, there is little movement. Life is still.
Most humans have, long ago, retreated inside thankful for the technology that has given us air-conditioning, icemakers and television.
On these days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will attack a wilting flower.
Today, in this small rural area, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine population will most likely scamper across the heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.
At one sun-bleached house along the road, a black and white tomcat pours itself across the worn back steps. He'll be sleeping deeply -- as far as tomcats do -- dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay.
On these days, the heat intensifies.
Already a chorus of cicadas have started a day-long chant -- an almost mechanical sound that ebbs and flows with the intensity of an ancient engine.
The elders of most these areas respect the days.
They know the power of heat; how it induces sleep. How it inspires conversation. How it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly.
On these days, on the front porch of those sun-bleached houses -- their is the one... Ya know the one with the cat -- the elders has settled himself in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap shades the last few hairs on the wrinkled, weather beaten head.
From the shadows a withered hand grasps a frost-covered glass. The hand will shake just enough to cause ripples in the ice-cold liquid.
Then, slowly, the hand brings the glass to a shadow beneath the ball cap. The liquid disappears.
The withered hand appears again, placing the empty glass on a small table.
On these days, the pin oak tree -- which, itself, has seen more summers than the old one near the porch -- seems almost alive with droning insects.
A lone car may pass. The tires gouge deep scars in the moist blacktop. The gnarled hand moves in a deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the old one stops his wave.
Above, the sun continues its journey until it's moved -- too slow, for many -- across the faded, blue sky.
The dust devils have ceased their dance. And, like the smoke of a wood fire, the dirt has settled once again on the Midwest prairie.
But, Missouri is like that. On certain days, when the sidewalks melt it just happens that way...
Stay Cool Ya'll
Nana
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