The cricket in the corner kicks his song into high gear at 3:30am in order to compete with the alarm's shrill, and the sheet is kicked to the end of the bed because the air is heavy, dense, hot.

Still, coffee is what I crave as we read into the pinkening dawn, and hope is high that the heat will do its job, cook cook cook the clouds, pour blessed moisture over the land.

It is not a homogenized or homogeneous life, for my days are never the same and for sure nothing like yours,…