With the joyous light that sustains us and burns us out in time, I've been outside every chance I get, with the camera and the occasional companion on sundry small adventuring. I'm not entering the Downtown Cleveland Alliance photo contest unless I send in something absurd. Glamourous and boosterific is not my strong suit, hence my self-definition as Peonage.
Supersonic Weeds of Sweetness.
And it's beautiful this time of year, I'm in love with chlorophyll and the translucent green of leaves filtering the close star's light, the shade of trees hanging over sidewalks, humid nights infused with the scent of honeysuckle, moonflower, and climbing roses that grow over every chain link fence in the almost-hood, where freakishly perfect suburban-style lawns are refreshingly rare.
Even the sterility of UnhappyHipsters-esque architecture is enlivened by the carpet of wildflowers juxtaposed against the blue lake and the towers of downtown.
It feels too hot to cook, so I drink lemonade and sit beneath the ceiling fan, needing time to be introverted before resurfacing into the outside world. It's the longest day of the year, but the time in which it falls seems incredibly brief.