Years back, a friend and I were on a small commercial prop job waiting to fly out of Lake Tahoe. Sitting in the plane on the tarmac, we waited. And waited. The pilot came on the intercom and explained that the plane was "a tad heavy" and we might need to unload some luggage or passengers or, best case scenario, if we got the right "puff of air," we could take off and make it over the surrounding mountains. She and I looked at each other, thinking it was rather bizarre that our lives could depend on a puff of air. (Obviously, we made it.)
In the barn on these hot days, I find myself again wishing for "a puff of air" as if my life depended on it. The slightest breeze wafting through gives a tiny measure of relief. None of the girls is in season, darn it, because when they are, their tail whirls like a helicopter and would fan the air. I'm grateful when one of the jays swoops overhead to the grain bucket because their flight fans the air a bit.
At noon yesterday, it was 102 on the side of the house that the sun never hits and 94 in the house. At seven o'clock in the evening, it was 94 outside and 92 inside. The delta breeze, nature's air conditioner for northern California, is too much to hope for, so I'm left waiting. Waiting for a puff of air.