September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt,
evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret. (Alexander Theroux)
So here we are on the far side of summer. I felt it the moment I woke up, the air cool on my face and colder still after my morning shower. It was a hot day but I felt the evening cooling in giant balloon pockets as Dunc and I strolled along the edge of the property. The sun and sky felt further away and somehow faded, as though the mere word "September" had somehow bleached the ferocity of summer from the world, turning everything into a pale, muted version of itself. Duncan led me without direction, content to meander here and then there with only the barest interest in the particulars of our world. The little birds in the shrubs, the cottoning thistles, even the sound of the crickets were merely backdrop. They will be there tomorrow, and perhaps when the idea of September has had more time to sink in they will capture our attention.
But that's okay. I have been sleepy all day and am already looking forward to crawling into bed, pulling the green comforter over me and unclouding my head with dreams of orange flowers and the hum of honeybees in the lavender thirty-seven steps below.