The morbid pride with which
People from the deep south speak of humidity,
A mixture of pride and disgust, as though
Discussing a backslidden child.

You try to follow along as glob(ule) after globule
Of sweat pop out of their foreheads
Like Gremlins in a sauna,
Which is what it feels like here among
The stoic pines.

We watch in amazement as it digests
A birdhouse in real time;
The robin fusses at it, admonishes it,
Then the humidity attacks it too,
Erases it from tail to skull until
A beak, unadorned, drops to the matted
Pine straw-covered forest floor.

No one looks amazed.

We go on talking about our misery,
Shortening our sentences,
Just in case.
At the end of our chat
We snap on our snorkel gear
And just sort of float away.