I don’t know why it’s the end of summer, but it is, and after a long temperate quiet sunny weekend here in the Yapple we pelted in the new season with fine overnight style. The long outskirts of Hurricane Frances didn’t bring us the tappity-tappity of whispering rain, they say: something about a cold Canadian mass, which sounds like an unfortunate breakfast I had once.
Whoever done done it, though, done kept me up all night. It was too hot or too dry or too sticky or too drippy or too giggly, all rolled up together into the long stretch to dawn. The night buzzed, and hummed, and spattered. Now my eyes feel like they’re squinchy raisins stuck into my face. Tired squinchy raisins. Grrr.