Call me a weather whiner, a global weirding wacko. I'm getting tired of the extremes, tired of the clear blue skies, tired of the heat, tired of sticking to the back of my chair and the top of the counter.
The trees that the development district planted along Santa Fe Drive are getting tire, too. I think I can hear them sizzling in their concrete stands. I've tried to help with buckets of water, but the tree to the right of Miss Prothero's Books has finally refused and lost all its leaves. It is carefully and quietly committing suicide.
I wish I could make it rain. For the last hour, I've been flipping through two books about humanity and its weather. One is Steve Thayer's The Weatherman, a thriller about a killer whose moods seem to change with the seasons. The other book is non-fiction -- Clark C. Spence's The Rainmakers, American "Pluviculture" to World War II. Spence traces rainmaking schemes all the way up to the first successful cloud seeding experiment in 1946. There's a chapter on rain by convection, rain by concussion, and rain by stink.
I think maybe I'll just shake my fist at the sky.
Ooops! Was that thunder I heard?
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