A poem by my oldest son, a groovy poet (and of course I am totally unbiased).
There is a heat that rises up off the road
this time of Texas. It is supernatural.
You don’t even have to be adjacent. Stand 100
yards from a hot blacktop and still get smacked
in the face by it while you were expecting a cool breeze.
Only shelter is underwater it seems
sometimes. You got your swim holes and pools all over,
but if they’re good, they’re crowded. Even in the parking
lot of some chlorinated oasis you can see that summer-ghost shimmer
spread out over the cars and soon-to-be swimmers. It ain’t even past spring yet.
Get pool noodles fast, buy water guns before the demand goes high,
and pack up on popsicles and push-pops; a simmer is coming.
Just you wait till. We’re gonna feel the boil this time, baby.
The wind will drop, clouds will cease to speckle the sky, and hell is gonna hit hard.