Our field is finally hayed. The wild tangle of goldenrod and Queen Ann’s Lace is gone, cut and dried and rolled into a momentary pastoral tableau that made me smile with satisfaction before it was carried away on a flatbed farm trailer.
We’re cleaning up from summer, I guess.
Crickets chirp continuously. Are they louder in August, or do I just grow more aware, knowing windows will soon close and then the world will close, too, hemmed in by snow and ice and stillness. A cicada interrupts the monotone symphony and I hush us: Listen! See! Smell! Savor it all, bottle it up, soul fed and ready for a long hibernation and an austere diet of frozen beauty.
We sit in sundresses and shorts still, soaking in sunshine, but keeping cardigans and afghans at the ready, knowing the sun will dip sooner and leave us damp and chilly, smelling autumn in the evening air.
Cupboard doors, closed, hide the shelves I’ve organized, sharpened pencils in jar, curriculum chosen after long deliberations. Fresh notebooks, new chore charts, basket of living books at the ready — but for now, tucked away. Waiting a bit longer.
The end of summer is celebrated here with cakes and presents, thanks to my August babies. Fall will be ushered in the same way, thanks to boys born under harvest moons. The signposts are everywhere, I guess is what I’m saying, and yet… I’m stubbornly, sentimentally lingering. I’m not ready, not quite, not this year. I contemplate pulling out that math program during a quiet afternoon hour but then you grab a glove to play catch and I almost sigh in relief. Yes, let’s do that. Let’s be carefree and in the moment, just for one more day. Or maybe another week? Yes. Grab a blanket and book, listen to the crickets. Let’s do that.