The heat here doesn't come with the sound of cicadas. Only the wind noises, blowing palm fronds high up. The wind itself, an oven that doesn't come with the smell of wild herbs or pine, but dust, the occasional bubble of mesquite. The only scent of home, the rosemary out front, that when disturbed, releases its Mediterranean-ness for days, confusing my senses when I exit the front door.
#84
#84
#84
The heat here doesn't come with the sound of cicadas. Only the wind noises, blowing palm fronds high up. The wind itself, an oven that doesn't come with the smell of wild herbs or pine, but dust, the occasional bubble of mesquite. The only scent of home, the rosemary out front, that when disturbed, releases its Mediterranean-ness for days, confusing my senses when I exit the front door.