The Want In Me Has Not Broken

The bees are quieting. Pretty colors other than deep green birthed by spring are beginning to wilt.

Summer is a hovering haze just above the treetops, dense with the threat of stifling damp heat. That haze will gradually drop, lower, lower, to glossed lip-level. Inhale and slow heavy gulfstreams thicken in the lungs, exhale what you can. Carry the rest. Bloating, slowing, dragging until August has you crippled, bowing before the air-conditioned gods you once gave names then forgot through the briefer, easier seasons. You forget so easily.

Why is that?

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