August in Tennessee

It's undeniably August. At almost 11:30, the heat index is hovering around 90 degrees. The air is so heavy and so moist that even when you're alone, you feel as if you're in an embrace so intimate that the next step towards passion is inevitable. You can't think on a night like this. You can't be clever. All you can do is lie back and smell the honeysuckle, the dirt from the soybean field and feel the sweat slowly cover your skin. Damn, you can get drunk on that smell if the mosquitos let you linger long enough to soak it in.

My hair was still wet when I twisted it off my neck this morning. Now, when I'm finally letting it down, it's still damp, slightly cool and smelling faintly of this morning's shampoo, the only remainder of freshness from a long and busy day.

This day isn't ready to be packed away yet. Loose ends beckon to be tied. Items on the daily list remain unchecked. Worries are waving at me from the corners, but summer indolence is going to win this battle. The rhythm and flow of this night is heavy and slow, and for once, that feels just right.

summer