When I visited friends in Atlanta one summer years back, my Northern sensibilities weren't prepared for the amount of sweat I could produce on an early morning run. I felt those conditions again this morning: heavy and humid underfoot, leadening my legs. And while it's a cliche, in Georgia we sat on porches and grilled slowly in the evening light, moving just a little, a Southern adjustment to the heat. I could taste it again this evening as the thunderheads built.
Beer in hand, I rested on the picnic table behind our house, waiting for steaks to grill through. I had them on low flame, and wondered if they would cook just as well on the sidewalk. I idly chewed on scallions from the garden, the one crop that's fully up at this odd pivot point. It's the end of May in Burlington, and the beans are only six inches tall, the garlic hasn't scaped, the lettuce is thumbnail-sized and only the weather seems to think that it's the end of July. Everything in it's right place but the mercury.
Walking down the dark street tonight was almost total silence, but for my sandals and my dog's heavy breathing. Lightning flickered in the clouds as they moved over the valley to the South and West, and stars burned overhead. As I re-entered the house, an Easterly breeze moved the lilies by the door, breaking the stillness.
