Global Warming

It's nearly midnight as I write this. It's about 80 degrees, humid, with not a breath of wind. This is July weather. The neighbors from down the street have seen fit to take their domestic problems up to our corner- "Well you can tell that MF that he can F hisself and..." -and on and on, the MFs and the Fs form a cadence, become a rap tune, as it blends into the other sounds of a summer's an autumnal evening. The train's lonesome cry in the distance, a motorcyclist revving on Highway 10, all these things should not be heard at this time of year. The windows (and storms windows) should be shut tight, the motorcycles be stored for the winter, and the "hot summer night" of discord should be buried under a cozy quilt.

Something is going on.