It’s the last day in June in Wisconsin. The thermometer on the deck (in the shade) reads 95. News persons on the television and radio are squawking about tropical dew-point triple digit temps, and extreme heat warnings. I am busy drawing birds on broadsides (new release tomorrow) and Macarthur comes up to the chair, bumps my arm (not the drawing one), and then prances away with a twisty butt and rough ruffs.
Interpretation: time to go to the mailbox.
I’ve been in and out all day. Trip to Red Wing to get photographs framed, loads of laundry hung on the clothes line, peppers finally planted in the garden, watered all the plants in containers, swept the deck of maple helicopter seeds before they begin sprouting. Yes, these were brief moments outside, each one convincing me it is not a good idea to be out if you don’t have to be out.
Excessive heat warnings!
I imagine steaming pavement. We don’t have any pavement around here, just dry dusty gravel and that live thing stillness of waiting for something awful to happen. Or that too hot to move stillness. Or that movement means death stillness. Or maybe resigned I’ll just stay here motionless until November stillness.
I can wait it out. Inside. I gave Macarthur a treat. He’s sleeping in front of the AC vent.