Summers so hot you, like Dante, can have a fever dream about the pits of hell and wake up, afraid that it’s come to meet you, risen up like a mirage, boiling everything in its shimmer. Humidity and its haze so heavy that it looks like wildfire, but the only smell comes from the damp morning ground. It bakes off so quickly in the sun you can almost hear the crickets and birds sigh in the dense air, restless until the sun begins to set again.
People don't believe me when I say the thunderstorms in Florida are just different.