After yesterday's pouring rain, today dawned golden and bright, with the morning sun making crystals of the raindrops still held on the plants' leaves and petals. It was absolutely breathtaking.
And then I stepped outside.
And quickly discovered air so thick with moisture that I, in fact, might have had trouble breathing because (silly me) I'm not accustomed to breathing underwater.
When they reported the weather as "humid" this morning, I believe our Gulf Coast weathermen were either making the most outrageous understatement in meteorological history, or playing rather tasteless joke on all of us. Had they wanted to get out the true story and warn the public properly, they would have put up a little image of a steam room with skull and crossbones over it and the warning caption "Do not go outside if you've a) forgotten deodorant or b) bothered to put on makeup or c) mind sweating through every stitch of clothing you're wearing."
And all of this was plainly obvious from just my first breath.
My second inhalation told me that it wasn't just moisture in the air, but moisture carrying the heady scent of every blooming flower in a five mile radius. Most close to home, the jasmine in full bloom scented the air with the essence of the sultry South.
There was no doubt about it - refreshed by yesterday's long, cool shower, nature had put on her perfume, unfurled her petals, and declared herself ready to mingle.
No less obvious than the haughty humans in a nightclub, all of the local wildlife is strutting its stuff and on the prowl for possible procreation opportunities.
How apropos, then, that today the local procreation poster children arrived: the "lovebugs".
Lovebugs (Plecia nearctica) are also called honeymoon flies or kissy bugs. They fly around attached to one another but, unlike that last nickname might suggest, they are not attached at the mouth.
For the next four weeks, the air will be full of paired lovebugs finding satisfaction in flight. Love on the fly. Or, rather, love on the wing of the fly.
And those of us that live here will heartlessly crush unknown millions of these diminutive duos as we zip from here to there in our cars (and sometimes on our bicycles - a lovebug couple in the face will pretty much ruin a ride, in case you were wondering).
Caught up in the heady perfume of the season, the copulating couples will meet life's windshield together. Sad, it's true, but not a bad way to go out.
At least they get to escape the humidity.
http://www.worldofcolorgallery.com
Showing posts with label hot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hot. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Heatwave
Thought the temperature is a pleasant 55 degrees in my Florida back yard, most of the nation is suffering what might be described as uncomfortably chilly weather.
So, for those of you who have cold fingers and toes, here's a little piece I found in a journal from June 2005, part of a writing assignment for my master's degree.
If this whole mind over matter thing is true, and I think it is, this should warm you up at least a degree or two:
I am sitting on the hot pavement of bridge number six north on the Blackwater State Heritage Trail. It's sultry. Sticky-hot. The humidity is like being in a steam room after several days of heavy rain. There is no breeze.
The brown, tannin-stained water of the wetland slough rolls beneath us, making little noise - just little rippling sounds where it swrils and eddies around the stems of plants - small maples and bog buttons and seemingly single fern leaves pointing at the sky.
These are mixed in with a thousand plants who are yet strangers to me. (It's like being at a cocktail party full of beautiful, interesting people - will there be enough time for me to know them all?)
A biker rides by and gives us a tiny breath of breeze.
Suddenly in the bright sunlight, the air can hold no more and fat drops begin peppering the water, the plants' leaves, the pavement, and my left thigh. A tiny, delicious relief.
It stays, a wet and shiny polka dot on my still untanned skin - simply because there is nowhere for it to go - the air will not take it back.
The momentary sprinkle does nothing to quiet the sweet trills around me - the caw caw caw of a large songbird in the distance, the occasional grrrulllp of a bullfrog, the twee twee of a jay , the buzz of dancing, mating dragonflies and (not far enough away) the rumble of logging trucks on Munson Highway.
I blow on my arm for a moment, hoping to cool the glistening sweat that has coated the inside of my elbow.
Beyond and above the powerlines that stretch through he wetland and over the bridge I see the bright whit of an anvil cloud and watch tis top billow and roll, building toward the edge of the troposphere.
I cannot tolerate my shoes and stick my bare feet out over the water - in hope of a cool updraft that doesn't come.
Still, bare feet always feel better. Freer.
I see trash trapped in a sandbar at the rivers' edge. It was white once - perhaps a bottle or bucket. Now it is brownish, old, and dirty. Funny that it is dirty when nothing else here is. Nature doesn't get dirty.
Splattering rain again. Smallish drops land on my outstretched legs - knees, calves, ankles - God bless it.
And on the page, too - ink is not waterproof.
This rain does not smell - or, rather, this place is so saturated with the scents of wet and decay and the sweet exhalation of green things that the smell of rain is incidental.
I ride this trail on my bicycle several times a week, but haven't before now gotten to sit still on it. Sitting still is marvelous.
I glimpse a brown bird that has taunted me on my rides. Not the shape of a robin, not the color of a mocking bird - it is itself, and another guest a the party that I'm eager to know.
What is that peeew peeew peeew peeew in the distance? Such a call from my childhood! It is the song of spring and "All's right with the world."
Maybe it's better that I don't know who sings it.
The slough flows from somewhere deep in the woods - an opening in the green of the trees that, to me, looks like all forest openings I've ever sen: like the entrance to an enchanted world.
How I long to hike up my skirt, jump in, and wade upstream in the cool, tea-brown water and into that dark, green garden.
But today, the only water for me is the bead of sweat rolling down my spine. It's time for me to go. Papers to write and research to cull. For a moment I wonder how that really might be taking away from my education.
www.worldofcolorgallery.com
So, for those of you who have cold fingers and toes, here's a little piece I found in a journal from June 2005, part of a writing assignment for my master's degree.
If this whole mind over matter thing is true, and I think it is, this should warm you up at least a degree or two:
I am sitting on the hot pavement of bridge number six north on the Blackwater State Heritage Trail. It's sultry. Sticky-hot. The humidity is like being in a steam room after several days of heavy rain. There is no breeze.
The brown, tannin-stained water of the wetland slough rolls beneath us, making little noise - just little rippling sounds where it swrils and eddies around the stems of plants - small maples and bog buttons and seemingly single fern leaves pointing at the sky.
These are mixed in with a thousand plants who are yet strangers to me. (It's like being at a cocktail party full of beautiful, interesting people - will there be enough time for me to know them all?)
A biker rides by and gives us a tiny breath of breeze.
Suddenly in the bright sunlight, the air can hold no more and fat drops begin peppering the water, the plants' leaves, the pavement, and my left thigh. A tiny, delicious relief.
It stays, a wet and shiny polka dot on my still untanned skin - simply because there is nowhere for it to go - the air will not take it back.
The momentary sprinkle does nothing to quiet the sweet trills around me - the caw caw caw of a large songbird in the distance, the occasional grrrulllp of a bullfrog, the twee twee of a jay , the buzz of dancing, mating dragonflies and (not far enough away) the rumble of logging trucks on Munson Highway.
I blow on my arm for a moment, hoping to cool the glistening sweat that has coated the inside of my elbow.
Beyond and above the powerlines that stretch through he wetland and over the bridge I see the bright whit of an anvil cloud and watch tis top billow and roll, building toward the edge of the troposphere.
I cannot tolerate my shoes and stick my bare feet out over the water - in hope of a cool updraft that doesn't come.
Still, bare feet always feel better. Freer.
I see trash trapped in a sandbar at the rivers' edge. It was white once - perhaps a bottle or bucket. Now it is brownish, old, and dirty. Funny that it is dirty when nothing else here is. Nature doesn't get dirty.
Splattering rain again. Smallish drops land on my outstretched legs - knees, calves, ankles - God bless it.
And on the page, too - ink is not waterproof.
This rain does not smell - or, rather, this place is so saturated with the scents of wet and decay and the sweet exhalation of green things that the smell of rain is incidental.
I ride this trail on my bicycle several times a week, but haven't before now gotten to sit still on it. Sitting still is marvelous.
I glimpse a brown bird that has taunted me on my rides. Not the shape of a robin, not the color of a mocking bird - it is itself, and another guest a the party that I'm eager to know.
What is that peeew peeew peeew peeew in the distance? Such a call from my childhood! It is the song of spring and "All's right with the world."
Maybe it's better that I don't know who sings it.
The slough flows from somewhere deep in the woods - an opening in the green of the trees that, to me, looks like all forest openings I've ever sen: like the entrance to an enchanted world.
How I long to hike up my skirt, jump in, and wade upstream in the cool, tea-brown water and into that dark, green garden.
But today, the only water for me is the bead of sweat rolling down my spine. It's time for me to go. Papers to write and research to cull. For a moment I wonder how that really might be taking away from my education.
www.worldofcolorgallery.com
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