It's Wicked Bright Outside

It's freaking hot as blazes out here. We've turned on the air-conditioner, a sort of unprecedented event in late April/early May. When I walked outside, it smelled smoky, but the sky is an implacable blue, so I'm wondering if there aren't fires somewhere, their trace brought in with the hot winds blowing all the palms and stripping my lips. We all feel weird on days like these, sort of bottled up, maybe dangerous. Those of us with tongues like scythes don't need a stone to sharpen us. If I weren't round and soft, I'd be all edges. There's nothing languid about this kind of heat. If I weren't typing, my fingers might be talons, unsheathed.