Respite of sunshine in winters christening called us to the car wash, called us to the picnics, called us moreover to stupid frollickings with our psychotic smiles
--it was a hibernation of a few holidays for winter sports--
daily high, one day in the midriff of December: 48 Fahrenheits.
from the slumbers of deep chill, reflection, inaction, your darn dreams, unto an imbalance of false spring near the coming of the magii in which we are beckoned, and languidly drifting back into the bedroll for the pretentious fantasies of hibernation, punchdrunk sailing the bilgewaters towards the land of Nod.
My frozen knees tingled in the transience of weather; the Christmas ornaments had condensation as of chilled soda placed out for drinking.
One day's high on the fringe of Christmas: 78 Fahrenheits.
Santa's milk on ice, this year, as the vortex was nudged away abruptly, extemperaneously at the begrudging knocks of intemperate expatriated summer, a sight so unexpected we were to dumbfounded to greet her trudging the long drive past the cornfields, the watering wells, furroughs, hedgerows, and alas, the unfenced middle parcel and a-near our furthest most swing, the one good for lemonade and drowsiness; we could place for Santa lemonade or dandelion wine, we could sleep in our underwear with windows open, we could indulge the time at its utmost preparing from the random acreage heating fuel of downed hardwoods, in our shirtsleeves at a sweat, and we could do that, but more, too, though only God knows the season and hour, irrelevant of how we marked it.
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