My South

The sun bares down on you like heat from an oven. Rich earthy dirt aroma fills the air. Thoses white stains on clothes are from the salt of evaporated sweat. Shade would be nice but is hard to find in the fields. You stop your truck in line with the irrigation system just to get sprayed and cool off for a bit. Waves of hot air snake up from the road, even the dirt ones. Evening comes and you catch a breeze. By that time eighty feels cool. You pop open a beer, sit in your swing and wave at your neighbors. The good ones will stop and sit for a spell. Eventually several folks are gathered around. Music starts to be played. Ice chest are gathered  and the drinks are freely given. A fire is lit in the pit because sixty is just cold. Stories are told. Hands are held and eventually we all part ways. Tomorrow starts early. Then we will do it again.

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