Summer nights are pushed in with cold breezes and robins wings. At night the sun never truly fades, a yellow phosphorescence lingers kin to the sticky heat and light bugs. It hangs in the air, light caught on nothing like dew caught in a web. The mosquitoes wings twist the air into a dour chorus like a poorly tuned violin quartet.
And sweat sticks to the brow. And to the sheets. And to the thin shirt that twists around beneath tight covers. The eyes that no longer reflect blue only the slow blink of the fireflies. Crickets sing the ears to sleep, and if the ear is trained, or looking for something to hear, it might catch the very light buffets of the frenzied flutter of bats. The moon hazed from the days heat hangs low making the sky like the inside of an immense pin hole camera. Promising an interesting and bright world on the other side.