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  • Writer's pictureShana Ritter


July 4 has come and gone and I hardly feel like its summer. Not having kids in school will do that. Coolest, wettest, June I can ever remember will do that. And so will working from home; letters to be emailed, grants written, word count for the novel in progress met.

The other evening amidst the noise of fireworks I heard a whip or will distant in the woods to the north of our home. It has been years since I’d heard that song, which for years had been carried all around the perimeter of our few acres by one bird claiming his territory. I was both glad and touched to hear it again, imagining a descendent of that original crier returned. I had missed the whip or will’s call coming through the open windows in the summer nights.

I’ve taken to sitting on the front porch steps in the late evening when the light lingers past nine and pond frogs begin their wild calling, and the sunset is reflected in soft strands across the eastern sky. I can see my driveway disappearing into trees and nothing more than brilliant green and soft sky and fireflies emerging from the trees suspending their magic in last light.

Then I remember it is summer. Time stretches like the lingering light  and I glimpse those summers of childhood.

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