sticky

The cicadas are deafening in their buzz this morning. The air is slow and thick. Summer has been here forever and there are no other seasons this year. The snow won't pile where I'm sitting, skirt hiked above my knees and my fingers sticky with plum. The leaves won't fall in drifts and showers covering the garden and the grass. The air won't crisp and cool and smell of apples. It has all drooped and oozed until it puddled in this moment of distilled August.