Heat Wave

Ozzie and I set out early today because it promised to be another hot day. The sun was below the ridge of hills ready to pounce. The dog days of summer are often like this--hot, dusty and burnt. The grasses, so green in the spring, have been reduced to straw and do nothing to mitigate the dust that coats everything. The star thistles, formerly bright yellow, now look like miniature weapons of medieval origin, with spikes than can pierce clothing. Unseen creatures rustle in the dry undergrowth. Flies buzz annoyingly around our faces, refusing to leave us alone. The ground has been sucked dry by a summer without rain and great cracks open in the earth.

Despite this devastation, there is still much to enjoy, a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, the sound of a woodpecker, a plane, so high that it is almost soundless, leaves white contrails in its wake. The smell of fennel, the little pockets of cool air that pool in the shady corners of the trail, the raucous crows calling to each other from the trees.

Soon the rain will come again, turning the dry cracked earth into a muddy river, the trees will lose their leaves, the seeds will go dormant until spring, the rocks will be washed clean of caked mud, revealing their true colors.

They say there are no seasons here in California, but I think they are just more subtle.