Is my muse the weather?

It's hot. It's summer. It's supposed to be hot. I know it, but the dog days of summer always find me unprepared. I've run out of my personal anti-freeze that keeps me cool. Am I getting old? I remember nineteen years ago having to pitch two softball games on the last day of the big tournament in order to win. It was over 100 degrees the entire time--not desert heat hot, but North Carolina muggy and sticky hot. It peaked at 105 sometime in the second inning of the second game. Older players dominated our team in this mixed league; the opposition had youth. We dropped from twenty to fifteen players by the start of the second game. By the fifth inning, we had ten. Up by one run in the bottom of the last inning, we only had nine players. A hot wind kicked up dust in front of a cold front that was still twenty minutes away. Girl-boy-girl, the bottom of their order, and the batters were told not to swing. In the swirling wind, no one could put the ball in the automatic strike zone (a black patch behind home plate) successfully. Six pitches later, there were two outs. On the next pitch, a soft line drive to shortstop ended it all. Too tired to care, the field was empty five minutes later, no victory celebration, but the memory lingers strong.

Now, the dog days keep me inside, subservient to air conditioning. But the writing flows when my butt is in the seat all day, and bloody noir thoughts arise easily in my comfortable prison. Bring it on Mother Nature. Give me your best shot. I wonder what weather inspires other writers?