Bedouin's Land

I hate summer, with utmost passion. Summer in my city is not your usual romanticized singing of the cicada-esque experience where the thin breathable fabric on your body gently oscillates in the soothing sea breeze as you nimble on freshly shaved ice. Summers here come with a declaration of war, an epidemic of fatigue, blisters heat waves and ORS shopping. There is, however, a soft spot in this city's summer towards its inhabitants, you can see it in action after 11pm, from the peel-your-skin-off gusts to lull whispers of air passing by, such is the contrast in treatment at this hour of night. There is a strange aroma that fills up the space around, maybe it comes from the transpirating rocks cooling down at the riverbank nearby, maybe its a pressure difference bringing in the air from lands I have no clue of or maybe its the prayers of those troubled at day answered for them to be at peace as they slumber. Whichever it is, it is gentle with a discrete presence. At an instant you sense it and at the other your nose is left searching; maybe it is more playful than it is gentle, whichever it is, it is kind; as opposed to the nostril numbing gales that one has to endure in winters, this fluff like aroma, these summer nights are kind on these ever so fragile nostrils.