The Mob

Winter leaves in a flourish of white. Shivering, huddling people pray for summer. Soaking up the first rays of sun, we dance. Shedding tears of joy we cry out for more. Delivered late as mail always is yet welcomed with open arms. Tanning to twin with lobsters, playing till seat soaks throug hshirts. Praises of summer can be heard through the moutains. Snap. poof. It disapears. Warmth resting from vigorous weeks of work. We cry, we shout. Cursing the light we've grown to love. Like a mother unwilling to disapoint, summer pushes with all her strength. Roasting all on earth to a crisp. Curses. Yelling. Where is the cold? Never are we satisfied but ever are we bold. Pitchforks in hand, we give chase.
Summer is waiting 
by the exit door in red
running from the mob