The prickly sides of Summer

Yesterday was meteorological mid-Summer. Astronomical mid-Summer arrives on August 7. About midway between those two dates, on July 29, we will reach Earth Overshoot Day. That's for the world average. The United States reached it on March 15. Only four countries reached their Overshoot Day earlier in the year. (Later is better.) As far as we're concerned, the only options are whether we end up with a hard or a soft landing. The laws of nature will always take precedence over the laws of humans in the long run.

sandburs on their stems

Photo by J. Harrington

Of more immediate note, yesterday we plucked the year's first sandburs (Cenchrus longispinus) from our roadside gravel strip. We can now add them to the other troublesome annoyances of mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms and occasional tornadoes. Once upon a time we thought we liked Summer better than Winter. After several decades of noticing the every single year brings Summertime "sandburs, mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms," but not every Winter brings a blizzard or a polar vortex to our neighborhood, we have to admit we're questioning "what were we thinking?" We seriously doubt that we'll live long enough to admit a preference for Winter over Summer, despite the differential in types of annoyances. Many years ago a friend pointed out that you can always put on more clothes but you can only take off everything. Even that wasn't enough to overcome our level of discomfort at being chilled to the bone which, come to think of it, seems to happen as often with Summer's air conditioning as it does when the temperature drops and the wind picks up during a Winter storm.

We're rambling and prattling, we know. The heat must have gotten to us, or maybe we've got a sandbur in our jeans. How long is it until November 3, 2020? 474 days. Between next Summer's weather, climate breakdown incidents, and the hot air blowing from political campaigns, we bet next year will be one for the record books. We also fervently hope that we're wrong about that. We haven't asked them yet but we suspect both dogs and the Better Half join us in that wish. Last time we checked, none of that trio liked "sandburs, mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms" any more than we do.

cruel, cruel summer

By D. A. Powell

either the postagestamp-bright inflorescence of wild mustard 

or the drab tassel of prairie smoke, waving its dirty garments 

either the low breeze through the cracked window 

or houseflies and drawn blinds to spare us the calid sun 

one day commands the next to lie down, to scatter:      we're done 

with allegiance, devotion, the malicious idea of what's eternal 

picture the terrain sunk, return of the inland sea, your spectacle 

your metaphor, the scope of this twiggy dominion pulled under 

crest and crest, wave and cloud, the thunder blast and burst of swells 

this is the sum of us:      brief sneezeweed, brief yellow blaze put out 

so little, your departure, one plunk upon the earth's surface, 

one drop to bind the dust, a little mud, a field of mud 

the swale gradually submerged, gradually forgotten 

and that is all that is to be borne of your empirical trope: 

first, a congregated light, the brilliance of a meadowland in bloom 

and then the image must fail, as we must fail, as we 

graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds 

don't tell me deluge.      don't tell me heat, too damned much heat

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