The Scene: North Texas
Currently, it stands as my most shameful love, because most despise her.
While Sweet Lady Summer deals us suffocating and smothering, infamous humidity, I'm grateful to her, for she forces me to be grateful for the spring, fall, and winter.
Oppressive convection humbles one quicker than most.
She, in her stifling glory, is the promoter of the orb weaver, the milkweed, the nosy fly, the bouncy butterfly, the beetle of June, color-saturated explosions, backyard-browning brisket bliss, charred aromas, hissing suds, and every replenishing pool to a name.
Walking to my car equals a glossy forehead, and I like it--sweats out all the toxins.
Gargantuan popup cumulonimbus pop up like wack-a-moles and dump millions of gallons and immeasurable volts at the drop of a cowboy hat, and I like it--makes the whole city sit down and shut the hell up.
Verano exists, partly, for the purpose of being children's playground--many a firefly captured, adolescent epidermis pierced by bee needles (teaching them the lesson to respect all life), many mosquito bites scratched to satisfaction, the water parks putting in work to fool capacity, and the ice cream trucks skating up and down countless residentials with kiddies in feverish pursuit.
The crack of the bat and the slap of the ball to a glove, for some reason, during her reign of brutal blaze, just sounds a wee bit sweeter.
She's a hell and a heaven of a gal, one I've admired since adolescence.
Conclusion: I love her so, even though she soaks me sweaty.
From the Soul,