• Shana Ritter

Moving toward summer

Each day the light lasts longer, stretching the day and shifting my sense of how to move through it. Already the memory of winter has faded. The wood stove has become a shelf for flowers, a candle, a stone found on a walk.

We eat supper on the porch, take a walk afterwards and still the sun is out. Dusk is barely descending as 9:30 approaches. Sometimes at this point in the year I find myself missing the dark, wanting a fire, the ease of settling into the pillows on the couch, wanting the quiet deep of warmth made against the cold.

But these June days I have no desire for the lengthened night, The days have been radiant, the breeze lightly scented with honeysuckle, the frogs chorusing with abandon. Sunset when it comes is drawn out in pale colors, the eastern sky taking on the deep shades of twilight long before the sun rests on the horizon.

When I let the dog out before bed I step out onto the grass. Mars is a luminescent red, fireflies shimmer in the trees as if they were stars, constellations unveil themselves. Night knowing itself to be small next to the summer days opens into dark with a still softness. We turn out the lights and leave the windows open wide.

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