Someone did some kind of summer, anti-rain dance last week. I'm sure of it.
Someone was sitting in bed sometime when it was under sixty degrees and said, "The night is actually comfortable. That pisses me off." And after a few pagan rituals, we're back to near-ninety weather.
Definitely posting one of my anti-summer poems for September's poem of the month (yeah, I haven't posted anything different for the selected poem of the month in a while. Sue me).
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