May is the most difficult month. The month that makes fools of the weather, the plants, the animals, and most of all, me. May is like the prettiest girl at the party. The prettiest girl at the concert, and also the ugliest model at times–or perhaps it is her personality is that is ugly. May sees the start of the hot days. The days that are called the honeymoon days. The days in which it seems like nothing could ever go wrong, before they do. Then, to keep things interesting May might throw in a thunderstorm or tantrum. She might throw in a downpour of tears and gusty winds that can’t decide which way to blow. What she wants at all. And in this fine splice of unpredictability there is calm and quiet, and then just before the sun rises, the singing of the birds. You relax your head, leaning it on her shoulder and for a moment she relaxes as well. Lending some swirling clouds to the sunset, leaving you wondering where the day has gone–if it were all a dream, and if so why you can’t have it every night. But no, it isn’t a dream. It’s just one day of many. One month of twelve. Sleep is all that can bring tomorrow. The summer.