a friday · already 28° at six · the river-keeper was up first
the air on the courtyard balcony, at six, was the temperature of a held hand. the river-keeper had been out since four with a thermometer on a string, reading the water at three depths and writing the figures on the back of a brown envelope.
by seven the stones in the yard were already too warm to sit on. a pair of swallows refused the upper rafters and flew low across the courtyard pond. the shutters on the west side stayed closed all day. the cook said nothing about it; he made cold soup.
the building released its old smells one by one — varnish, dust, cedar, the lacquer on the banister. by ten the city outside was loud and quiet at once, the way it is in heat. nobody moved unless they had to.
— field note: a heat morning has a slowness inside it that resembles ceremony. you walk through the corridors as if carrying a glass of water on your head.
see also · hour 06 · hour 07 · noon · the atmospheres · the river