Fleeting.

Ah, summer in all its ripeness. July is as spent now as a drunken sailor, and in waltzes August, full of the scent of unfurling gardenias,

scarlet runner beans growing to the sky,

and ruddy tomatoes, begging to be plucked from the vine.

But what’s this?

I walked out the door this morning and found myself trapped in a veil of Halloween spider web, and then another and another. One hen remains summer broody but two others are growing patchy with molt, signaling autumn’s lack of plumage.

Our evening walks are ratcheting backwards in time every night in order to get Lily to the corner and back before we need flashlights.

Does this look like summer?

Or this?

I think we need to check our sources. The calendar says, indubitably, that fall does not begin until September 22 in the northern hemisphere. But the crows say otherwise, gathering in imposing murders to discuss their seasonal reorganization. The afternoon sunshine is deliciously warm, but step into the shade for a moment and the chill in the air reminds you of just how fleeting summer really is.

I start dreaming the mental checklist, fully believing that I will find a way next year to experience the midnight sun. Norway, Reykjavik, or even Canada?

Or, better yet, how about literally following the sun around the world? I have it on good authority that the Canary Islands are a perfect August destination for those who never want autumn to come.

But summer dreams, like the season itself, are oh so fleeting. I suspect that a year from now (God willing…) I’ll be right here brushing off the cobwebs and wondering why I didn’t plant those tomatoes earlier.

I’m planning to make the most of August and its promised extra-large scoops of sunshine. But I remain mindful: two minutes less light on each end of the day, and, oh, by the way, Christmas is just around the corner…

“End of Summer”

An agitation of the air,

A perturbation of the light

Admonished me the unloved year

Would turn on its hinge that night

I stood in the disenchanted field

Amid the stubble and the stones,

Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me

The song of my marrow-bones.

Blue poured into summer blue,

A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,

the roof of the silo blazed, and I knew

that part of my life was over.

Already the iron door of the north

Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows

Order their population forth,

And a cruel wind blows.

– Stanley Kunitz

About polloplayer

Empty nester searching for meaning of life through the occasional chicken epiphany.
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4 Responses to Fleeting.

  1. Jean Gutsche says:

    Beautiful prose and pictures!!!

  2. dizzyguy says:

    Does this mean I’m running out of time to wear my new Speedo at Hope Ranch beach?

  3. citymama says:

    it’s been foggy here for two weeks. 😡 i need to live in the tropics. 😂😫

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