No More Critters

It’s eleven in the morning. The sun hangs peeved and heavy in the sky, not a cloud in sight to soothe its building temper.

I toe the grass gingerly, though I'm not exactly sure what I’m checking for. Dew. Life. Resistance. Instead, the blades surrender to my weight and crumble beneath my feet like brittle paper. The soil — once fertile and teeming with critters — falls apart in hard lumps. I’d watered my backyard yesterday afternoon.

Where once stood a flourishing fountain that posed as a speakeasy for blackbirds, summer bunnies and deer, there's a chalky copper basin that is burning up. The watering hole is empty, and the animals are gone. It feels bleak, depressing, but it makes sense. It’s so hot.

What happened overnight? My barbecue party last evening had been “an absolute success” according to my boyfriend's cheerful voice-note to me earlier this morning. And it had been.

I remember how my new flute glasses floated around in trays and champagne spilled into mouths lit by laughter, weakening their grip on decorum. Flowers curled out from everywhere: the hedge that fringed my home, the napkin holders, even the hem of my favorite dress. The sky had been the perfect midnight blue.

And then it hadn't.

Everything changed overnight.

Right now, my backyard is a destruction zone.