It’s not that hot.
Not really.
Yes, the air oozes against your legs
And wraps its sticky fingers around your neck
And licks your arms.
Yes, the sun stares you down
Never blinking
Never dissuaded by the shade.
Yes, the ground bakes from below
The sky from above
You melt like a popsicle in a microwave.
The horizon dances –twists and turns
To the silence of the breeze.
Yes, it’s slightly hot.
But not that hot.
Not really.