I settled on the screened porch to the honking of geese overhead, a whole gaggle, rowdy in the early morning haze of an August sky.
A reminder that summer is drawing closer to its end.
A rustling of leaves at the tree line joined in, a breeze taking flight, joining the uprising… protesting or promoting the closing of the season?
The ensuing rustle, a bit like rain, a bit like the street sweeper that climbs the hill in front of our house collecting grass clippings on summer mornings, leaf droppings in fall.
Collecting fallen reaped things.
Even in this season of plenty — even now — autumn is drawing nigh.
Nobody says that anymore, have you noticed?
Not the autumn part, though that too… that beautiful word, losing ground to the curt simplicity of Fall… but the growing nigh part?
Just poets. Maybe. Rarely.
Those of us who want to hold onto the nostalgia of old words wheezing their last, along with the weedy wistfulness of summertime.
Both futile undertakings.
Still. They’re not dead yet.
Not the words, as long as we’re willing to sit with them a while in their magic, and not the summer, while we’re willing to sit with her a while in her moment.
Summer’s ripe and blowsy, beautifully overgrown, gorgeous and gone-too-soon moment.
Today, I will seize her like a ripe tomato – bright and round and shining with the taste of sunshine.
Today, I will fill my soul with her,
Much like the hummingbird, flitting about to show me he’s here before perching, iridescent, on the red roost against the blue backdrop of the swimming pool.
He surveys his domain and drinks himself giddy.
While directly below, a bee ambles its way from leggy petunia to leggy petunia gathering nectar to make honey while the sun shines warm.
A pool float drifts aimlessly in the remnants of the breeze, gone as fast as it came. Gone as fast as summer.
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