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Summer is arriving to south Florida. One can tell when the clouds roll in right after lunchtime. It cools off, darkens slightly, and the winds reach back to the gulfstream, take a deep breath, and let go on the prairie like a five-year old making a wish on his birthday candles. Oak leaves ruffle in more greens than one could have ever imagined. They dance in the coolness of an Atlantic front bringing a 95 F laboring sun to a crisp 80 F fiesta. My guinea hens run in large circles asking who all is invited. The ducks don't know but they waddle swiftly to the pond, not waiting for invitation. They will not miss one minute of complete communion with the sweet and heavy drops of cumulonectar. With the south windows closed at 2 in the afternoon, I think about putting on a sweater but I stay by the glass doors in my dining room imprinting my fingertips on the fogged glass. Outside it is a celebration by mother nature. The frog chorus sings "Allelujah" in an ancient tongue. Mockingbirds and cardinals sing praises. The dead stillness of the South before full summer has seen fit for a party. I slide back the doors, run out in barefeet and dance. We all dance the dance of rain on the prairie.
Marcia `copyright 2004 ~ all rights reserved
dedicated to my HT friends
Marcia `copyright 2004 ~ all rights reserved
dedicated to my HT friends