A violent splash of crimson
Dear Francis,
Cheerio! Pray tell, how are you? And how is the weather?
We have now entered June, and the weather here is of half a mind to embrace summertime. I say "half a mind" because on some days the thermometer will climb into the 90s, and on others it will plummet into the 60s. The weather is being mightily indecisive, but I find I am okay with that. As a radical centrist, I am happiest when the weather settles halfway between the grey, pluvial mildness of spring and the torrid extremes of summer— like today. As I write this, I am outside in the treehouse (upon which my wife and I have bestowed the title "Buttonwood Eyrie") and the sky is overcast. A rich darkness tinctures some of the clouds, though no forecast foretells rain. A slight breeze ruffles the trees, which are looking magnificently verdant. It is a perfectly clement, almost sleepy kind of day.
I am savoring this weather, for in due course temperatures will rise, up, up, up, until the thermometer threatens to explode in a violent splash of crimson, and the flowers wilt and the grass struggles to maintain its viridity. Summertime in a high desert can be punishing, at least when the sun is high. But as I am always inclined to belabor, at least it is a dry heat.
There's always so much that can be said about politics these days, but for once, I shall refrain from foisting my thoughts about the state of the country on you. I could palaver on about Spencer Pratt's improbable showing in the Los Angeles mayoral race, Bari Weiss' inscrutable hiring—and firing—decisions at CBS, President Trump's sudden insouciance about Iran, and much more. But I think I will leave it at the weather today.
There are those who consider it a bit lame to talk about the weather, as though it were an inherently uninteresting topic. I find this puzzling, though. Weather is among the Earth's most complex phenomena, and it daily defies our ability to model it with much accuracy. The greatest minds have cogitated on it, including Aristotle. And if the weather is good enough for Aristotle, it is good enough for me.
With love,
SEW