Hottest day of the year up until now with scarely a breeze. Hollyhocks are beginning to bloom. August arrives tomorrow.
Cold lemonade and ice in a mason jar topped with mint from my garden.
Streets are deserted, window blinds shut tight, lawns trimmed to perfection, evidence of civilized habitation.
Lazy bees drone from bloom to bloom sipping nectar, which only seems to slow then down more. Not a bird in sight.
Yesterday morning, the yard was filled with baby birds, robins I think. The parent bird was supervising the new found skills of the young to find the fattest, most luscious berries.
One disheveled specimen was lying on the ledge of the fence. At first I thought he may be injured, or perhaps one of those who are not strong enough to survive. He proved me wrong moments later to my delight, hopping up and joining the rest.
Rather a strange phenomenon, this longing for summer days that goes on all winter long, yet now here, I seek refuge in the cool darkness, cheek pressed on the cold hardwood, alongside the cats flaked out on the floor.
So glad I chose the lower level for my studio. It remains cooler in the summer, and warmer in the winter than the rest of the house, which in theory, encourages more time spent in it. These days it does not come without effort.
Summer heat gives rise to my nocturnal tendencies,
the notion of sleeping away
the sweltering days,
to prowl deep
into the night's coolness.