Hot season.

There is nothing that makes me feel more like I have lost connection to other places than this season. The smoke and heat, the drought of it, dust and leaves swirling in hot air, shrieks of cicadas from every tree.

I feel feral and dystopian, rural and gritty. I am burned by the air, resolute and grim. I feel the press of heat from the sky and the road when I ride my motorbike, my face is in a permanent squint. The smoky air teases our thoughts from us, makes us hazy and unsure, like the line of mountains, if we can see them.

If I come into an indoor space, maybe a mall or the dentist, I suddenly see the holes in my clothes, the dirt under my nails, the way sun has darkened my face in patches, as if I am wearing a lighter mask around my eyes. In the wind and washed out light outside, these things are not noticable.

Many people leave our town, going south to blue skies and water. When we see others on the street during this season, we wave to each other, as though to ghosts.

You’re still here too.

And you.

It’s odd that our hot season happens when much of the world is experiencing spring. We were lush through your winter, now we are as dry as chalk. We stalk the garden with hoses, slowly, limbs moving like grasses, trying to keep the plants alive.

We find the rivers and shady places. We wait for the rain to come.

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