{"id":1787,"date":"2023-03-21T12:18:17","date_gmt":"2023-03-21T16:18:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/peterschireson.com\/?p=1787"},"modified":"2023-03-21T13:34:37","modified_gmt":"2023-03-21T17:34:37","slug":"in-which-i-consider-the-weather","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/peterschireson.com\/in-which-i-consider-the-weather\/","title":{"rendered":"In which I Consider the Weather"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
A New York friend says
we have no real seasons in the Coachella Valley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Untrue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Come fall, the death of summer, and we feel like feathers.
Birds prance like runway models on the telephone wires,
leaves toss in the twilight wind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Winter keeps us cool\u2014
the last of the fall leaves look up from under the trees
as if on the verge of speech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With Spring, freckles of peppery warmth,
a wonderment in the blood,
nerves purr, and the abyss holds off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Summer\u2014early mornings, the air still benign, bright,
even clarifying.
But by eleven, images begin to dissolve\u2014
a dog crosses the street, a crow lands on the fence\u2014
a succession of blurry moments,
mopped up, one by one, by the burgeoning heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Across the street, two doves park in a palm
above a pink couple from Minnesota
on their third poolside margarita,
committing slow suicide by sunburn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To walk outside is to wobble between reverence, collapse,
and a kind of puzzlement: Can it really be this hot?
Why, for the love of God, are we living here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We try not to think about it.
We try to regroup\u2014
we swim, we air-condition,
we cocktail, we reconstitute,
but the vast, untractable heat has pinned us down,
songbirds shuttered, sidewalks barren, car-less streets.
A hummingbird hovers over the bougainvillea
as if to paraphrase the simmering silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At eleven, the shiny woman on Channel Seven proclaims,
Tomorrow\u2019s expected high: One hundred-twelve,
and the expectation of blistering heat forms
into a noose around the neck of another day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A New York friend says
\nwe have no real seasons in the
Coachella Valley.<\/p>\n
Untrue.<\/p>\n
Come fall, the death of summer, and we feel like feathers.
\nBirds prance like runway models on the telephone wires,
\nleaves toss in the twilight wind.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":1788,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7,28],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\n