But now it’s 83 and the cicadas are singing their hearts out. Few mosquitoes so apparently the dragonflies are doing a great job.
A nice evening in the South. If only I had a porch overlooking a pond in the woods.
You gotta come north, string. Daytime temps in the 70s; Mid 50s at night; low humidity. Cloudy and cool enough today to wear fleece.
We call it payback for winter. 
Ouch! We’ll be traveling northward soon, I guess I’d better take the high road (rt 81) and hopefully miss the worst of the heat. Florida may be humid as a shower stall, but we rarely see anything over 95,
It was a blip. Tomorrow in the high 80s and t-storms.
Rookie, I’d probably freeze up there. I’ve always been able to handle heat. Cold is not my friend.
I hear ya, Strang. Outdoor stuff is done early in the mawnin’ heah in the Salth
Say what you want, the south east portion of the US has a lot of paddling beauty! And getting out early is never a bad idea!
@string said:
Rookie, I’d probably freeze up there. I’ve always been able to handle heat. Cold is not my friend.
You sure would have today. We had the coldest temp east of the Mississippi. Got up to 59F. A bit brisk for mid-August. Would have been a great day to paddle were it not for the rain.
In Praise of My Not Yet Sub-Tropic Summer
(to Sahara Some Say)
There is the tease of season-sans-reason to August. He takes brother July’s sun-baked oven setting, and dials it up and down with whim. Or, maybe out of a sense of loss, as Sir Soleil shortens the daily visits. The frantic twitching of a million cicada hindlegs ratchets up the torpid afternoon’s drone, as heat waves dance the parched grass fields, tickling phantom visions into life. Then, as each languorous day moves by, the golden eye passes its powerful stare more quickly away beneath the western horizon. Lovely kaleidoscopic skies hold our gazes into violet and amber interplay, till all that is civil in twilight slips beneath the grey veil where batty darts tarantella in mosquito pursuit. The chorus changes pitch and slows meter with cricket and croak. Within hours, a blackness will weep its dewy tears, and with this moisture leaked into atmosphere comes a coolness that the early morning venturer will find strange, and, perhaps disconcerting.
September is almost upon us. Summer will slide away into her equinox, as will the languor sublimating into the chilly wistful. Let us bake just a little longer, sweat without fret, Shelter in the shade, before the shades dance over our lawns, and we glance up with lowered inclinations at a slipping Sir Soleil through barren limbs.