This is the month that dims our memories of the short, gray days of winter, the fog shrouded nights, the chilling damp and endless rains and wind of spring. In July we take blue skies and white clouds for granted. They are our due.

The lane between the cottonwoods is dusty, not muddy. The puddles have disappeared and the trees deliver a towering canopy of shade. The straw has been cut and baled. The fields are full and green, the corn chest high, the wheat growing golden, the berries not ready for picking. The frog pond glows a vivid shade of green, its surface obscured by water plants. We envy the frogs disappearing into the coolness. We drink bottle after bottle of water, our skin damp in the heat. The queues at the ice cream stands match those at the bakeries--are we living on bread and ice cream?

The traffic is lighter and the neighborhood streets doze during the day. The shuttered houses announce their owners are on holiday. Take a stroll after dinner and see tanned women walking their dogs, children calling between bicycles, men bent in two over flower beds, boys with their arms around the waists of willowy girls, and cats warily eyeing the action on the streets.

At night the heat makes the patio pleasant, the bedroom stifling. The sheets lie crumpled as we toss and turn and long for a breeze to carry us into sleep before the sun delivers another hot and languorous day to our doorway.

(This is part of a series I started last September when I began writing short entries capturing the essence of individual months. They're collected in my By Topic archive under "Seasons.")