S.B.T. 447

Summer's trail

 

Our golden sun admits to clutching onto hazy see-through strips of summer, waving them around like ribbon flags, curling in the mid-October sky.  The breath of nature seems hesitant to bear puffing through this corner in time, as a new birth, it won’t be on time, it could be any time. First leaves, and fruits, and then snow, will fall.  

Late afternoon s leftover daylight glows as long as it can, the sunset comes earlier these days, but not too early yet. It hasn’t happened yet, though we are closing in. We’re slowing down, ever so slightly, the closer we get. As if to clear the turn, a hairpin. Keeping focus on speed to accommodate terrain. But I have a feeling that time is running forward. Change of season draws up an instinct like a magnet, to flee.

 

The heat in summer rises from the sands and sidewalks and penetrates through your straw hat, your baseball cap, the temperature is in the 90’s. The perfume of fresh baked heat drapes itself around us and blankets every cobble and garden corner, light, dark, day or night. The inescapable very capable thermal pattern, there for a dash in the waves, a splash in the pool, margaritas, relief.

Warm long beach scenes are fading now as we wander the waterfront, just looking, just seeing it sans touring crowds, though there are still a handful of them here and there, taking some photos. We’re wearing long pants and fall jackets now. It is not really cold yet, but there’s a feeling, a sense, that draws up tones of coolness, we move through seasons, from hot to warm to cool to cold to freezing to cold to cool and back again. The reliable dozen months, divided by four. We know it well, it’s predictable, it will sharpen our wits, like it or not, always.

At this moment, it is raining. The weather can be deeply philosophical. It inspires reactions, and talking about it is one of the things everyone worldwide does more than once a day at least silently if not aloud.