Summer is in full session in the part of the world in which I live, the Texas Hill Country. Already, there have been days with high temperatures above 100ºF / 37ºC, whose lows were themselves quite high; already, the ground begins to crack from thirst, and some creeks are running dry that had flowed far more freely. Nor is this the worst of it; August has yet to arrive, and it is August that treats this part of the world as a blast furnace. Bodies exhaust themselves trying to shed heat into the heat, and, fatiguing, people feel their tempers fray faster than in fall or winter or spring. It is likely the case that the heat has killed some here already this year; it is a certainty that more will die from it than have, as any who have lived here and listened or looked will know and as any who do for any length of time will find.

Photo by Dominika Roseclay on Pexels.com
It is a beautiful place, but it is not necessarily a kind one.
Even sitting comfortably where someone else has to pay the power bill to keep the air conditioning running, I find myself battered by the brightness outside, laboring under the feeling of heat that inescapably rises from seeing the rippling rising from the pavement, warping the images of the fading green leaves beyond. Something not water seems to coruscate upon the pale ribbons that tie our towns together, glitter bedecking the gift that is this part of the world, however hot it is and will be for the coming weeks.
Because, again, it is going to get worse before it gets better. And although I have lived through this swelling cycle many times, and although many have done so more times than I and with less support than I enjoy in my indolence and ease, there will be no few who suffer for nothing that they have done other than to be where they are, bitten badly by the dogs of these days.
I can only hope they’ve had their shots.
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