Published by Newfound
Occasionally we have them in Maine, days laden with the scent of honeysuckle, scattered with birdsong, shot through with the low hum of bees. So damn hot and sticky, say the natives, unbearable. They swipe their foreheads, look around in shock, keep pressing. The first genuinely warm day in three years, I say, a day when my muscles are relaxed and my bones loose, when my hair goes thick and wavy, when the creases at my elbows and knees gleam. Sweat tickles my right calf, and my back is slick, caressed by my soaked shirt. I walk like I’m in a wading pool. I take my time.
Image by Robert Flogaus-Faust via Wikimedia Commons.