As August winds down, the light begins to change. Instead of a wash of brightness, the light becomes a slanting, gentle thing, bathing rather than buffeting.
Summer grows heavy. Most years, the heat becomes a punishing entity in August, pressing on my chest until breathing is a chore. The grass dies, and I start to think of fall with longing. As if she senses my yearning, nature starts hinting at the hues and fruits of fall.
This year has been different for my corner of the world. August has been gentle and mild. If not for the fantastic light, I would swear it was June.
The sky is saturated with color; I want to sprawl out on a blanket and stare at it.
But of course the garden calls, with weeds to be pulled and thirsty plants to be watered, spent blooms needing to be trimmed and flowers to cut for drying.
And the plants seem to say fall is coming, and our time together is limited, and don’t I want to smell and taste and touch as much as possible while I still have time?
And I do.