Right now all you can think about is the humidity. Every day there is at least the threat of a thunderstorm. The sky is gray—not defined with clouds, nor with any texture or patterns—just hazy grayish white for miles. Thick, dense, low. The threat of rain lingers for hours. You look at the sky feeling perhaps a drop, but then it goes on not raining. There is a psychological strain with this endless humidity. Its dragging quality. Its airlessness.
We seek out the small spots where water gathers, even though despite the recent storms the water levels are still low. Do you remember the winter? How there was no snow? And no ice? And the winter before that and then before that? But still, we seek out the water for relief—by the river where the water chestnuts choke the shores so badly they’ve got a water chestnut chopper to try and contain it. There are secret oases we tiptoe to: moss-lined pockets with geometric rocks and mirror-like pools that we rest by, while we wait for the rain to finally fall.