It's eighty some degrees and sticky. The trees wilt and yellow. I look for color and find it in the shady undergrowth or on a few high branches facing wind; otherwise the green world browns in this still heat, and my limbs swell, and the crickets and flies continue to breed. The sky is not right. It is bleached with a pale haze and cloudless though this is the season of crisp blues, brash blues, overcast violets that make the grays of the branches their deep wet blacks. Only the light is predictable. It slants into shorter days. The leaves fall still green.
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hours on the clock this week: 68 and counting
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G.C. made it to Galesburg.
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