Ante Meridiem, Post Meridiem

From now on, I will get up and out before 9:00 a.m. if I want to go for a walk down to the berm, because, one: the day was sunny and hot, and required sunblock so now I smell like sunblock; and  two: it was unusually crowded and felt like I was at the county fair, weaving in and out between people that were meandering but would suddenly stop midst meander to report on some occurrence or photograph a blurred moment, and I would have to throw on the brakes.  Or almost tripping over the couple who were laying on the Canadian goose pooped grass sans blanket in the middle of a pathway through the public garden making no sense whatsoever.  Of course anyone can lay on the grass, but right in front of the entry to the bricked walk?  If I were a goose, I would have made an organic statement.  If I were a Canadian, I would have inquired politely if they thought civilization was a recent idea.

Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill.  But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit.  Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk,  you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.

I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home.  Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain.  Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer.  I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.

Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on.  I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis.  Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.

Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water.   Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon,  spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out.  Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure.  The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud.  Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.  

How could you know?  Has anyone told you of the night?  Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight.  Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch.  Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.

I will tell you a story. Sleep well.