March heat

It was a hot day in which everything went still beneath the harsh sky. It wasn’t the yellow hot of the dog days of August, those days on which intangible rivers rose from the pavement and ran through the streets—it was a hot day of white instead; the sun filtered through a thin layer of clouds but still burning. Windows reflected the outside world like bright mirrors and insects hid underground. Birds took solace in the cool eves of the trees, singing out a single line of song before the parched, thin air silenced them. Crows dotted the telephone lines like smoldering coals against the blank sky and watched the earth crawl beneath them. Anyone who stepped outside was blinded as though they had looked into the terrible face of God.