The sweat doth drippeth from the brow

A hearty "Hail" from the hot zone to those in other hot zones. Now, who are they that say global warming is hooplah? Come work in Brightly's hothouse office for an afternoon, little misters. On second thought, stay away; stay far, far away.

O the hot little birds, they roll in dirt. They scrabble for shade, dirty sun-sponges they.

The Dickinsonian oracle sputters in the heat of the sunny southwest Midwestern Metroplis' afternoon:

What shall I do when the Summer troubles -
What, when the Rose is ripe -
What when the Eggs fly off in Music
From the Maple Keep?

What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrup
Drop a Tune on Me -
When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup
What will become of Me?
(E. Dickinson, from 915)