Just found the New York Times daily taster e-mail in my in-box.
Of late, it always kicks off with the weather. Here’s today:
A sticky Wednesday morning to you.
It is already 80 degrees.
It’s been 280 days since the temperature last hit 90 in Central Park.
Some time in the midafternoon, as the sun bakes down, we should reach that magic number again.
It is easy to forget how shocking it feels when the city shifts into high summer: A sullen violence hangs in the sultry air, the normal borders between things peeled away.
Tuesday, with a high of 89 degrees – the hottest day so far this year – gave a little taste.
On a sidewalk table at a cafe on loud, listless Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn sat a stainless steel bowl filled with water balloons and a sign taped to it: “It’s time.”
Try reading that aloud, especially:
A súllen ví-lence hángs in th’ súltry áir,
The nórmal bórders b’twéen things péeled awáy.
Not only (almost) natural iambic pentameters (as least the way I read it), but an internal rhyme and some nice assonances.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head …
Spooky, huh? (Or possibly, deliberate or not, the husks from a good education in there, still).