Wind blew from the south as story told, but it blew of a change different than heat, drawn to cold and storm in north. Anna felt that too, the subtlety, and a coolness instead of burden on summer wind; sky clouded in broken pattern of clouds in wave on wave; bright of their fronts in light of the sun, shadow of undersides, creases and folds, covered and hidden from sun.
She stood on the porch, arms akimbo. Akimbo, a funny word—hands to hip and elbows wide—she’d learned by Percy Walker novel, looking up when it was found. She used it then in thought, in notice of her stand, and smiled. Word made her feel in control and command: of her mind, of her language, of the day—even if all she did was dream and gaze on clouds.
But there was more to do, of course. Cleaning the home, sweeping the porch, making fresh and lived in again after time of dormant wait.
She thought of fish, fried in a pan—hush puppies and fries in same—laughing at her mind. “Read one southern novel and your whole diet is changed.” She wanted collared greens, cooked with bacon, harvested from broad of summer spread, zucchini and squash, sliced and seared, fresh picked from their vining sprawls; dirt on her hands, wiped on her jeans—white of her shirt still clean.
So much to do, believing it nothing all, but such are the labors when happily home, and so she was, at home in the trees; southern wind and sky of clouds, respite from the heat under porch roof awn.
Lowering hands, she reached for broom in lean against pillar supporting awn. Happily, she set to work, sweeping porch, making home of evening shade.