Pickle

Everybody wants the summer and its skimpiness. The big tall wish chugging through the good old exhaust pipe like a vacation dream. White, ruddy men and women from climes where the cold sears quietly under the aurora borealis, secretly not minding the few degrees above last year's notch in their native January-February. They feed each other mouthfuls of excited talk about greenhouse gasses, coveting that southern breeze in their dark log cabin. To be scorched rare, far away by the sun in brine.