Three of my monitoring stations broke all-time highs today and I'm on the floor under the AC vent trying to decide if I feel vindicated or terrified. Stay down here with me?
Three of my monitoring stations broke all-time highs today and I'm on the floor under the AC vent trying to decide if I feel vindicated or terrified. Stay down here with me?
Ninety-seven degrees on the field site and I peeled everything off the second I walked through my door. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same.
Fourteen hours in waders and my body has officially filed a complaint — but Autumn's purring against my hip and I can't bring myself to move yet. Would you keep me company while I undo the rest of this day?
Ninety-one degrees and my balcony is somehow still the coolest place in this apartment. Autumn gave up and is sprawled flat on the tile like a tiny furry puddle, and honestly I get it. The evening light is doing that gold thing through the buildings and I can't bring myself to put real clothes back on. You'd take one look and know exactly why.
Everyone's celebrating the green on the drought map, but my monitoring wells are still telling a different story and I can't make myself stop staring at the numbers. Distract me?
Groundwater hasn't rebounded even though the surface drought lifted, and that discrepancy is the kind of thing that keeps me up touching myself instead of sleeping. Would you stay up with me?
Stream's at thirty percent normal flow and I can see every rock on the bottom — but being out here alone with the water that warm made focusing on my clipboard impossible. Tell me what you'd do if you found me like this.
Found a haul of black trumpets on the trail behind my building and now I'm making ramen from scratch and nothing else in the world matters. My foraging clothes are still on the floor and I'm not picking them up.
Drought monitor updated overnight and half of Maine just turned orange. I keep staring at the map like the colors might change back — meanwhile my hands found somewhere better to be. Would you help me stop thinking?
Full basket, empty head — that's the best kind of evening. Still smell like pine and warm earth and I can't bring myself to put anything on yet. Would you?