Too Hot for Pigs

Granddaddy always said
summers in the south
were too hot for pigs.
I laughed, the cool mist
spritzing my cheeks,
the roar of the Pacific before us
as we stood on an outcropping
of craggy rocks.
He loved to tell
of the South and his past
while the cool, summer breeze
whipped my curls back.
He told of the crickets,
the cotton flying
and cicadas chirping.
He told of catching fireflies
in his bare fists in the open fields.
Again, he said his catchphrase
to remind me
how lucky we were
here on the west coast.
I grinned big and shared my image
of a beautiful prize pig
from the county fair
standing in the cool ocean
freckled snout
lifting up with a grin

Too Hot for Pigs

and my granddaddy chuckled
low and deep,
his wrinkles deepening,
while my giggles were
tossed with the waves.