(Note: For those of you who are tired of the cold; here's something worth remembering — summer.
— MSC)
There are certain days during an Oklahoma summer when the sidewalks melt.
On those days, the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno which hangs just low enough in the sky to scorch everything in its view.
The sky is a pale, listless blue; a blue that's faded and worn, like a young girl's favorite jeans.
On those days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of red dust drift, swirl and dance like ancient spirits; they float quietly reminding all in their path that nature has long ruled the 46th state.
On those days, there is little movement. Life is still. Most humans have retreated inside, thankful for the technology that birthed air-conditioning and iced tea.
On those days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will assault a wilting flower. Across the street, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine population will scamper over heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.
On those days, at the sun-bleached, white house on the corner, an amber tomcat will pour himself across the back steps. He'll sleep deeply - as far as tomcats can -dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay nearby.
On those days, the heat intensifies the din. A chorus of cicadas start their day-long chant - an almost mechanical sound which ebbs and flows like an tired electric motor.
The old ones of the town respect those days. They know the power of heat. They understand how it induces sleep and prolongs gentle conversation. They know it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly; they know it's wrath.
On those days, one of the old ones has settled in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap covers his few remaining hairs. Once, he was strong - a warrior in denim who battled the heat and nurtured the earth for his existence.
Those days have long passed; and now, his once strong hand grasps a slick, frost-covered glass. He shakes just enough to cause ripples in the small pond of lemonaid.
Slowly, the glass fades into the shadow beneath the ball cap and returns, empty.
On those days, the blackjack tree - which, itself, has seen more summers than the man on the porch - seems almost alive with droning bugs. A single car passes, its tires gouge deep scars in the soft blacktop.
The old one moves his hand a slow, deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the greeting stops.
He naps as the dust devils dance around him.
It's later now.
The sun has moved slowly - too slow, for most - across that faded, blue expanse of sky.
The dust devils are gone; and, softly, the red dirt has settled, once again, on the Oklahoma prairie.
- Oklahoma, land of tornadoes and red dirt. The rocker squeaks as it's pushed back and forth.
Tornadoes and red dirt.
Yes, Oklahoma is like that.
On those days, when the sidewalks melt.
— MSC)
There are certain days during an Oklahoma summer when the sidewalks melt.
On those days, the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno which hangs just low enough in the sky to scorch everything in its view.
The sky is a pale, listless blue; a blue that's faded and worn, like a young girl's favorite jeans.
On those days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of red dust drift, swirl and dance like ancient spirits; they float quietly reminding all in their path that nature has long ruled the 46th state.
On those days, there is little movement. Life is still. Most humans have retreated inside, thankful for the technology that birthed air-conditioning and iced tea.
On those days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will assault a wilting flower. Across the street, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine population will scamper over heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.
On those days, at the sun-bleached, white house on the corner, an amber tomcat will pour himself across the back steps. He'll sleep deeply - as far as tomcats can -dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay nearby.
On those days, the heat intensifies the din. A chorus of cicadas start their day-long chant - an almost mechanical sound which ebbs and flows like an tired electric motor.
The old ones of the town respect those days. They know the power of heat. They understand how it induces sleep and prolongs gentle conversation. They know it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly; they know it's wrath.
On those days, one of the old ones has settled in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap covers his few remaining hairs. Once, he was strong - a warrior in denim who battled the heat and nurtured the earth for his existence.
Those days have long passed; and now, his once strong hand grasps a slick, frost-covered glass. He shakes just enough to cause ripples in the small pond of lemonaid.
Slowly, the glass fades into the shadow beneath the ball cap and returns, empty.
On those days, the blackjack tree - which, itself, has seen more summers than the man on the porch - seems almost alive with droning bugs. A single car passes, its tires gouge deep scars in the soft blacktop.
The old one moves his hand a slow, deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the greeting stops.
He naps as the dust devils dance around him.
It's later now.
The sun has moved slowly - too slow, for most - across that faded, blue expanse of sky.
The dust devils are gone; and, softly, the red dirt has settled, once again, on the Oklahoma prairie.
- Oklahoma, land of tornadoes and red dirt. The rocker squeaks as it's pushed back and forth.
Tornadoes and red dirt.
Yes, Oklahoma is like that.
On those days, when the sidewalks melt.
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