It’s not the heat… yes, it is.

I had forgotten the kind of New England summer day where you bake for a sunny, hot, dry morning but slowly, surely the humidity begins to rise.  There is an increasing feeling of being under pressure, as if you were trapped inside a balloon with someone pressing down from the outside.  The light has taken on that greenish pinkish tint that makes me instinctively want to scurry under something non-conductive and stay there.  There is barely any breeze; the leaves on the maples and oaks are all jittering but the wind hasn’t arrived yet.  The juncos and goldfinches know something is up; there is a flurry around the freshly-filled bird feeder.

The storm is coming.

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