The Heat and the Hammock

The sun is unrelenting. Even the birds take cover in the olive trees. I find myself in a sleepy coastal village, walking slowly between stone houses whose shutters are drawn closed. The scent of fig and dust drifts in the air.

A woman watering her garden offers me a slice of melon. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve tasted in weeks. She points to a hammock under two olive trees. “It’s too hot to think,” she says, “so don’t.”

I lie down. The canvas cradles me like a slow-moving wave. Cicadas buzz around me, weaving a song with no beginning and no end.

Above, the sky is so blue it seems solid.

I close my eyes, not to sleep, but to feel more. The weight of the air, the shade dappling my face, the drift of time as it slows and softens.

In this heat, nothing can be forced. Everything comes by surrender.