so-called winter

much too mild to be awarded that name. the days are muggy and bright, the sunlight pouring down as if to say, "may you never forget summertime!" oh, i remember what summertime feels like, but when the seasons change i'd like some more fitting meteorological phenomena. must the precipitation always be so liquid? the sunlight so warm? and, though more biological, must there always be some noxious flower in bloom, pumping its fragrances into the air, concocting some relentless sensory overload when all i wanted was the crisp clean winter air, free from green for a few months and reddening the insides of my nostrils, a fresh and biting sensation? those pierce tinglings that remind us of the frailties of our bodies, that the cold can penetrate our skin and vanquish our human haughtiness for just this fraction of the year?

and what does berkeley offer as a counter to our hubris of seasonal invulnerability? absolutely nothing. its nights are chilly, as some kind of weak vestigial idiosyncrasy derived from someplace that takes this season seriously. but come afternoon, the sun is out in full force, bathing the ground with bright baking rays that burn the iris and irritate the snow-lover. a downright poor substitute.