Pits

It's hot. It's really stupid hot, and I still love Arizona with all my heart, but I am done with above 100 days.

Summer is special. There is a feel. Limeade, reading novels, late mornings, what day is it. That feel is rancid in this September broil. Yes, I miss the forest of Michigan, I miss the sidewalk outside my dad's house, I miss the season of childhood freedom.

And I hate you, Arizona, for pretending it's not expired when it's roadkill.

Wisconsin in June.