A few surefire signs of summer...
Skinned knees. And ankles, the tops of the feet. The mere fact that it's too hot to wear anything but seven bandaids and a headband.
Flip flop tan-line, though it may well be dirt. No matter.
Suddenly noticing out of the corner of your eye that the chrysalids in the Bug House have finally opened, and then letting the new baby butterflies taste the coconut ice cream still sticky on your fingers.
Never mind the manhands, it was truly a spiritual moment.
Realizing that the butterflies were born the day before you go on a road trip, and oh god--what if they hadn't hatched? You picture yourself coming home to a net house full of whisper-thin dead wings torn from flapping hungrily against the sides, or the alternative--taking them with you, a house full of crisp cocoons wedged between the surfboard and the juice boxes, waiting to hatch on that taut ribbon of I5.
These are not the things one thinks of in January. Of hats and sand, the smell of bbq two streets over, of a day that seems to stretch and then drip into tomorrow.