Virginia’s cold in December.
We whisk the air through our mouths, our noses icy and wet, buzzing under the collar of a shirt if you don’t have a scarf.  
I don’t have a scarf.
It’s something I think I'll be fine with, but two weeks into our polar vortexes and I’m regretting not dredging up some forgotten pair from a year prior.
Even with gloves, our fingers lock into an animal’s claw, only to unfurl again in late April when the wind dies down.
I don’t have any gloves.
My last pair ripped on a jagged, steel countertop of some Shafer street buffet. The meal cost me $12.50, a dollar more than last month.

Virginia’s hot in June.
We walk slow in the shade, even slower in the sun. The river gulps more of it down than we ever could, belching out a horrible sulfur smell that tangs the air.
I don’t mind it.
The city bleeds rust after the first heavy rain, the cracked concrete wearing away, each year offering a better foothold for the creeping jenny and the kuzdu's green.  
The thump of a loudspeaker pounds the southside, a heartbeat always present, popping up in this park on Thursday, this porch on Saturday, this festival Friday night.

I don’t mind it at all.