At fifty-three quaint degrees on the fahrenheit scale and sixty-six percent relative humidity, I could just make out my breath escaping my body in wispy clouds. I wore my down vest over my flannel and t-shirt, but also shorts. It may be ninety-one sixty above the surface of the world's oceans and it can snow at any time of the year, but it's still summer. I stand in punk-rock defiance of the chill.
Oi! with middle finger held high...
There is smoke from chimneys. From outdoor grills and embryonic bonfires. There is no bad weather, just the wrong clothes. The rains have stopped, and we step outside once more. Breaks in the clouds give hope to seeing stars.
It is not too cold for mosquitoes-fuck. Not too cold for shorts-fuck you. We have an invite to a party at the old fellowship hall, should it still be on once dinner's done. It's still summer. It'll warm up once more. That is the way of it. The cyclic wheel turns a bit further upon its liner spokes.