Outside, early summer heat stifles
the mind, bakes a hard crust
upon the brain beneath straw lids—
eyes roll and detach within flashes
of white light, falling towards delirium:
I cannot breathe or see connections,
I cannot think, I cannot write.
Small comfort that I am not alone
within this fuzzy circumstance.
Harassed by a squadron kingbirds,
a Great Blue glides and lights
upon the gravel, stands tall
to claim any open space,
grounded for battle. All supposed
sentiments have escaped to shade,
gone north to cooler climes.
Summer in the San Joaquin,
a damn hard time to write.
drycrikjournal 
Hot enough to melt the asphalt when I was a boy in Turlock . . .
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Right! Where the cold mix would soften and bunch up like a rug, where you could leave the imprint of your US Keds.
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Caution. As you know the heat and sun can be a killer. I debate within myself, a hat blocking the sun verses adding/trapping more heat to the head. The hat wins most of the time.
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Without the straw, I’d have another kind of white-light mental meltdown, plus leg and hand cramps. Water, water, water. Got to get to the shade before noon. Bringing the last of the calves to be weaned off the hill this a.m.
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