[rise and shine]
It is still hot here, heavy hot. At 7:30 the air sits still and wet, weighing down on your tender skin and even more fragile cooling system like a wool blanket that's been dipped in the sea and thrown into the oven. It's all you can do to keep from constantly complaining about the discomfort.
We head out into this thick, wet heat every morning to make our way up the hill to where the bus waits to carry my sons and half our little neighborhood off to school. We pass by the water, grey and still or sometimes choppy and crashing with sprays of surprise showers over the rocky embankment. Fishing boats bob in the distance and a horn blasts from further out in the bay. A man sells crabs from the back of his rusty truck bed.
At the crest of the hill is a small park where every morning a group gathers to perform their early ritual. They snap fans in unison as they balance and stretch, dancing in mirrored rhythm as the bright accordion papers wave like choreographed petals in the sunlight. It's exercise, and art, and a pleasure to watch as we drip and wait in the morning heat.