Cocooned

What is it about summer that brings people out of doors, into late hours and deep in conversation?

The winter is sleep; 11pm in February is much too late but by July 11pm is just the beginning.

Summers have been these patchworks of all-encompassing warmth, a different sense of living, this deep vitality that starts in the toes and works its way into everything. The nights are the pinnacle of temperature, neither too hot or too cold, neither too dry or too muggy but that place where heat and coolness are settled and quiet, a tenuous and teetering peace. When the worries of balance fade away one finds themselves on that little plateau of solace, itself covered in a swath of conversation, one ready for harvest each summer. Why is that? Why is conversation so easy on summer nights?
It doesn't matter if its a stoop in a city, a deck in the suburbs or a campfire in the country it all melds into nights made later by more words to say. It's as if what lives in summer cannot be filled in a day, even with its seemingly endless sunlight. It must breathe and walk among the stars.
This season has already had its bouquets of ripe conversation and laughter; I am in awe of this yearly constant of quality that blooms as the temperature hums. Summers are awe.