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“The cotton was open and spilling into the fields; the very air smelled of it. In field after field as he passed along the pickers, arrested in stooping attitudes, seemed fixed amid the constant surf of bursting bolls like piles in surf, the long, partly-filled sacks streaming away behind them like rigid frozen flags. The air was hot, vivid and breathless--a final fierce concentration of the doomed and dying summer.”
― William Faulkner, The Hamlet

“By July, a damp Southern heat had settled down on the town like warm sweet syrup.”
― Marti Healy

“Many of the town’s residents summered up North, along with their horses. Others took long, slow weekends at the beach or on the lake or in the mountains, in family homes built by their great grandparents and passed through the generations like prized silver. The rest of us simply tempered our pace and entered into the peace that floated around us on the breeze of a slow-moving fan.”
― Marti Healy, The Rhythm of Selby

“The hot, soggy breath of the approaching summer was extremely depressing”
― Frederick Law Olmsted, A Journey through Texas: Or a Saddle-Trip on the Southwestern Frontier