Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, August 26, 1930

The hot white drought wind comes out of the brassy southwest sky, scorching the earth with its breath, like a blast of air from a coke-oven. The small saplings shrivel, and stand gaunt with curled dry white leaves; the foliage of larger trees turns a sickly brown—grass is brittle and dry affording scant forage for the hundreds of grass-hoppers and locusts that zig-zag thru the maze of stems—corn-blades, dry and bleached, rattle in the hot-breeze—

There is a particular gloom inside the studio—it seems surrounded on all sides by white glaring sunlight—it dances in waves around the edges of the windows—tho they are closed, the air is full of the continuous tick-tick-tick-and zee-zee—sounds of countless insects—that are shattered at times by the penetrating metallic songs of cicadas.

Charles E. Burchfield, August 26, 1930