she could speak of the mice leaving the root cellars early , or of heat lightning in a spring sky , but she could not speak of the heat she sensed somewhere just over the horizon , crouched like a scrawny yet powerful beast with mangy fur and red , smoldering eyes ; she could not speak of her dreams , which were hot and shadowless and thirsty ; she could not speak of the morning when tears had come for no reason , tears that did not relieve but stung the eyes like august-mad sweat instead .