On the way home from town yesterday in the surprising cool of a late August afternoon I noticed a tinge of yellow on the leaves. It seems an early fall is approaching. Late August used to be still summer, but now the kids have been back in school for weeks and I am throwing an extra blanket on the bed at night. My new year, both my birthday and Rosh Hashanah are only a few weeks away.
August was a busy month full of work and family and my own writing objectives I hardly looked up. There were a few good walks, delightful dips in the pond, lots of home cooked meals, great corn on the grill. Now, it is nearly the end of August and the beginning of a new cycle.
I have spent the morning quiet, listening to the muffled rise of cicadas, the soft call of birds, an occasional rasp of cawing then wind beginning to pick up after a few still hours.
The wind itself feels like Autumn, no bite to it just a wisp of cool. Enough to let me know to pay attention to where trees have come down and which will make good firewood. Enough to make me wonder how is it I can sit here on the porch, on this beautiful late morning in summer and still remember last winter, even as I look to the coming fall. Does time have no clear lines at all?
I think less so for writers, or at least that’s the perspective I know. There is a fluidity to years and seasons, remembrance and imagination often merge. The tinge of marigolds from the circular summer garden of my childhood floats just above the yard I mowed yesterday. And each of the scents bear weight, tangible as the table I lean on.