My Favourite Season Summer Free -

Dusk arrived like a bruise—purple and gold and tender. The air cooled just enough to remind you that the world wasn't actually on fire. We ate dinner on the back porch, corn on the cob dripping with butter, watermelon that stained our chins pink. The conversation was slow, interrupted by long stares at the horizon.

Summer is the season of three o’clock shadows and six o’clock sun. We played pickup basketball until our legs turned to rubber, the orange ball a sticky blur against the blinding blue sky. The blacktop was hot enough to fry an egg, so we played in bare feet, hopping from foot to foot like we were dancing on coals. When the final, desperate buzzer sounded—Sam’s victory roar echoing off the garage door—we didn’t go inside. We went to the hose.

She was right. Summer is crazy. It’s too hot, too fast, too bright. It ends too soon. my favourite season summer

We sat on the curb as the wind arrived, hot and frantic, flipping the leaves of the maple trees inside out. The first fat, warm raindrops splattered on the asphalt, smelling of dust and ozone. And then the sky tore open.

And then, the fireflies.

I grinned, grabbed my gloves, and slid down the stairs’ banister, burning the back of my thigh. It hurt. It was worth it.

The thunderstorm.

It wasn’t a rainstorm. It was a release. The thunder was a bass drum you felt in your ribs. The lightning cracked the sky into jagged white rivers. We didn’t run. We sat there, getting drenched to the bone, shouting over the roar of the water. It was terrifying and beautiful. The summer heat, the pressure of the long, bright days—it all exploded in a single, cleansing hour.