The Pan and the Handle

It’s funny to think of fall falling from north to south in a succession counter to the fall of our topographic landscapes. Sure, summer will fall into fall faster than Florida feels any form of frost, but that sunshine state will assume the royal blue of our ocean while we bask in the auburns that elevation endows us with. St. Augustine spoke too soon staking claim to a Fountain of Youth in the most ironic of states as far as I’m concerned and I’ll be glad to seasonally sprinkle snow upon my skin if it means staying afloat another few years.

Proximity to icecaps only means we’ve grown closer over time, like old friends who grew up with an inherent loyalty from imminence, and betrayal to a fellow frontier would only follow if residents retaliated against the rise in warming weather. Everyone’s gunning for Florida, our weapon of choice is just the elements, and though the sun pretends to be a partner, he’ll turn in time and be the demise that drowns the life that those perpetually green leaves stole by assuming the sin of greed.

So strap up, pan, I’m afraid your handle is in with us in the continental US.

Or I’m just like, jealous.

And cold.

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