Since we’ve lived through so much recent rain and cold, it’s a joy to see the sun again.
And, soon it will be summer.
Those days when the sidewalks melt and the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno that hangs just low enough to scorch all in its view.
Even the sky fades.
What was a deep blue pallet, is bleached and faded — a pale, listless, faint type of blue — like a young girl’s favorite jeans.
On these days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of red dust drift, swirl and dance like angry ancient spirits. They float quietly reminding those around them that nature has long ruled the 46th state.
On these days, there is little movement. Life is still.
Most humans have, long ago, retreated inside thankful for the technology that birthed air-conditioning, icemakers and television.
On these days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will assault a wilting flower. Today, in this small town, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine population will scamper across the heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.
At one sun-bleached white house, an amber tomcat has poured itself across the worn back steps. He’ll sleep deeply — as far as tomcats do — dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay.
On these days, the heat intensifies the din.
Already a chorus of cicadas have started a day-long chant — an almost mechanical sound that ebbs and flows with the intensity of an ancient engine.
The elders of the town respect these days.
They know the power of heat; how it induces sleep. How it inspires conversation. How it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly.
On this day, on the front porch of the sun-bleached house — the one with the cat — one of the elders has settled himself in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap shades the last few hairs on the wrinkled, weather beaten head.
From the shadows a withered hand grasps a frost-covered glass. The hand shakes just enough to cause ripples in the ice-cold liquid.
Then, slowly, the hand brings the glass to a shadow beneath the ball cap. The liquid disappears.
The withered hand appears again, placing the empty glass on a small wicker table.
On these days, the blackjack tree — which, itself, has seen more summers than the old one on the porch — seems almost alive with droning insects.
A lone car passes. The tires gouge deep scars in the moist blacktop. The gnarled hand moves in a deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the old one stops his wave.
Above, the sun continues its journey until it’s moved — too slow, for many — across the faded, blue sky.
The dust devils have ceased their dance. And, like the smoke of a wood fire, the red dirt has settled once again on the Oklahoma prairie.
But, Oklahoma is like that.
On certain days, when the sidewalks melt.
And, soon it will be summer.
Those days when the sidewalks melt and the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno that hangs just low enough to scorch all in its view.
Even the sky fades.
What was a deep blue pallet, is bleached and faded — a pale, listless, faint type of blue — like a young girl’s favorite jeans.
On these days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of red dust drift, swirl and dance like angry ancient spirits. They float quietly reminding those around them that nature has long ruled the 46th state.
On these days, there is little movement. Life is still.
Most humans have, long ago, retreated inside thankful for the technology that birthed air-conditioning, icemakers and television.
On these days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will assault a wilting flower. Today, in this small town, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine population will scamper across the heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.
At one sun-bleached white house, an amber tomcat has poured itself across the worn back steps. He’ll sleep deeply — as far as tomcats do — dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay.
On these days, the heat intensifies the din.
Already a chorus of cicadas have started a day-long chant — an almost mechanical sound that ebbs and flows with the intensity of an ancient engine.
The elders of the town respect these days.
They know the power of heat; how it induces sleep. How it inspires conversation. How it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly.
On this day, on the front porch of the sun-bleached house — the one with the cat — one of the elders has settled himself in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap shades the last few hairs on the wrinkled, weather beaten head.
From the shadows a withered hand grasps a frost-covered glass. The hand shakes just enough to cause ripples in the ice-cold liquid.
Then, slowly, the hand brings the glass to a shadow beneath the ball cap. The liquid disappears.
The withered hand appears again, placing the empty glass on a small wicker table.
On these days, the blackjack tree — which, itself, has seen more summers than the old one on the porch — seems almost alive with droning insects.
A lone car passes. The tires gouge deep scars in the moist blacktop. The gnarled hand moves in a deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the old one stops his wave.
Above, the sun continues its journey until it’s moved — too slow, for many — across the faded, blue sky.
The dust devils have ceased their dance. And, like the smoke of a wood fire, the red dirt has settled once again on the Oklahoma prairie.
But, Oklahoma is like that.
On certain days, when the sidewalks melt.
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