strawberries, buttermilk, spinach, asparagus, rhubarb, and dill

it starts with a crick in the wrist. the left one. the one nearly forgotten, was broken midair on a trampoline at age eleven. don’t think much of it.

the cat, hot and miserable, lays in the middle of the coffee table. somehow this is a respite, or probably, she just wants to hangout.

but then suddenly, too early for the sun to be setting, it gets so dark. it’s gloomy and a welcomed breeze sets in. the air becomes damp and heavy.

the cat disappears. under the bed --- just in time for the first lightning strike and rumble of thunder.

with a whoosh, the skies let loose and the sound is rhythmic and lulling and uncharacteristically pleasing in the moment. the allowance for a lazy sunday afternoon. wafting through the window, it would be nice if the air smelled a little less of wet garbage, and a little more like wet grass, and mulch, and wood. the way it did in the "old" days.

with a lovely, guiltless, dreary afternoon of really good television under the belt, dinner needs to get made. the chicken bought that morning is somehow rancid. partners in most things, hands are held in the evening’s drizzle on the stroll back to the market. in the moment, the lightning strikes far off in the distance don’t seem foreboding...

leaving the market with a fresh pack, the skies have erupted again. adult-like considerations are assessed. wait it out? are these shoes good for running? can these clothes get wet?

fuck it.

a frenzied four block dash ensues. and then maybe, just maybe, before dipping inside, a quick kiss is stolen in the rain.

what happened to summer? i promise it’s still here, just look at that market haul!