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?
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…