Some prose...Heat Wave

I was looking through some old journals and found I write a fair piece about the weather. This makes a decent amount of sense since many of these journals date back to when I was in college and would hang around the woods reading and writing. And I took maybe 3 naturalist writing classes (only outpaced by how many Science Fiction classes I took. One in Writing Dept, One in English Dept, and another as an experimental interdisciplinary course) and then a Field Bio course where we had to jot down many observations. Maybe I will transcribe these one day. That said I  am often inspired to write by weather. Which I know...thrilling. You talk about the weather either when the conversation has died or it IS the conversation. Or when you are just trying to pass through or making the most banal of casual conversation. So either...

1) "Oh, hot enough for ya. Hehehe. Ok, bye!"

OR

2) "IT IS A FUCKING HURRICANE OUT! GET INSIDE!"

OR

3) ***You just told her you don't get why you can't refer to women as "females"*** "So....um...hot enough for ya?"

But Romanticizing it? On a blog? Well this one for sure....

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The city rolled into Labor Day with a heat wave. In newer buildings or retail spaces it is chilly with each door swing throwing walls of angry air at each other. The heat stifling, the cold ramped as far as the coils can go. I tend to poke around in older buildings looking for a piece of scrap or earshot of interesting conversation. The bricks feel warm and the splintered beams of wood seem to crackle, each hole open agape and hurting. In darker/cooler spots, usually a bathroom, the porcelain sweats especially around the bottom of toilet bowls. I once owned a rabbit who did not like the heat and we would allow to free roam around the house. He would curl around the basin of our toilet which was a wide commercial model somehow placed in an apartment (It was a cheap apartment) and wick away the heat and moisture onto his fur.
Climbing through the tall grass of an overgrown lot I noticed the window AC running in the house behind me. It hums placidly making a family happy but I followed the fat dew drops from the corner to the ground. There they smash with the consistency of the oil splatter of a frying pan creating a tiny thick clump of grass where everything else is willowy tendrils in a patch of brown-yellow. The side of the house has peeling paint and crumbling grout between the windows and maybe if were not so oppressively hot out I could feel the nimble cold escape from the cracks. But today it feels like everything else lost in the heat that one can drink.