Nature's Whim

The atmosphere is overheated, overwhelmingly
oppressive. It is so unendurable it feels as though
we are helplessly gulping, swallowing and wallowing
in pure steam. Factually, this is indeed what we are
doing, breathing the over-heated atmosphere;
high humidity under a pure blue bowl of sky
untrammelled by the merest wisp of cloud to
produce an inner-jungle mass of superheated,
moist air, boiling helpless organisms.

One imagines oneself groping helplessly for
relief from the relentless sun in a desert setting
infused with moisture that cloys; air so heavy and
dank it is refused passage through the oesophagus,
and we gasp for oxygen eluding our need, yet
we persevere, for there are no options other.

Wrong, we bless modern technology and a kind
happenstance of fate and reserve our parched
energies held fast within our air-conditioned shelters,
prisoners of deep summer days and unforgiving
nights. Others seek refuge in natural surroundings,
shaded under the cool canopy of trees, hoping the
atmosphere will build toward a sudden onset of
furious cloudbursts, relieving the tension.

Meanwhile, looking with gratitude at the wispiest
of escaped breezes. The landscape is as parched
as we, vibrant greens wilting, stricken by the
sun's heartless rays, flowers closing in protest,
leafy boughs sheltering silenced songbirds. Life
suspended in an abeyance of physical activity, all
energy muted, striving to maintain ourselves
through the utility of pure entropic existence.

Everything seems to be suffocating, shrivelling,
drying up in this intolerably heated atmosphere.
It is as though the sky has been converted to an
oven, and we are within it, sizzling, steam pouring
from our every pore as we begin to disintegrate
into a mass of dry sinew, muscle and clacking
bones, the soft tissue of our skin succumbing to
evaporation assailing us from above and within,
surrounding us entirely, sucking us into nothing.

We, the droop-leaved trees, their canopies
suddenly enervated, hanging with fatigue at mere
existence on these severely baking days, one
following sternly upon the other, no hope of relief.
Gardens are wilting, flowers closing to preserve
their bright insouciance for other, more reasonable
summer days. Birds, formerly bursting their
plumaged chests with prideful song, silent.

Bees there are, but massed on the bark of a tree
just beneath their hive entrance, looking like a
chenille covering, silently waiting to be mortally
overcome, the heat so toxic to their life purpose.
The life cycle of mosquitoes interrupted; when
we plunge early mornings into our wooded ravine
they are miraculously absent, one happily tolerable
result of hell's heat. Butterflies have become
scarce, and moths seek solitude and comfort where
they may, to escape the deadening, fiery air.

When the sky does cloud, the sun still finds its way
through. When clouds become darkly threatening
we wait with breath singed and bated for their
titanic clash and the relief that a massive downpour
will bring. Finally, cloudbursts prevail in full
thunderous regalia, all the pomp and furious sound
of clouds emulating the tectonic force of grinding
continental plates. Electrical fire stabs the hot,
moist air, carrying it across and beyond the sky,
singeing trees, rooftops, and striking terror
into the pounding hearts of nature's creatures.

Rain lashes the landscape as the Earth attempts
to turn itself into a giant, welcoming sponge,
investing its future into the grateful acceptance
of wind-howling, violent offerings. Creeks and
rivers run hastily swollen to lakes and oceans,
washing soil into the wide aqueous bowls of the
seas. Parched crops are smashed, rivers wash
into townscapes, inundate buildings; animals drown
and misery is completely at Nature's whim.