I sit reading. Rocking in the whiteness of the rocker, listening to the sing sing sing of the cicadas. It doesn’t feel like July, it feels like March- the breeze and the swish of the leaves. I think of falling asleep on the hammock when I was young, I think of walking down the street to the park in France to read, I think of riding with the windows down in North Georgia. I wish I could gather this breeze and put it in a small velvet box and keep it with me for those days of riding in the sweaty summer afternoons when my pants are clinging to me.