End of Summer

 

End of Summer

. . .

I see you leaving our bright land,
The last cut flowers in your hand.

“The Summer Ends” by Wendell Berry

Summer isn’t over, exactly—but there is a feeling in the air. Of limited time. Ticking away in the gut. Get it done.

I took the children to the river where a mill race used to run and where the stream is slowed by a terrace of rocks. They waded in and launched “boats,” bits of shaggy bark. We found a rotting crawdad on the muddy banks and sent it on its way upon the sluggish current.

Above the bank is a knotted weeping willow, where Jack discovered a secret door. The boys climbed in and out of the twisting roots that still feed the old tree. Hard to believe.

The blue and white checkerboard sky overhead was clear of smoke, humidity, ailment, and worry. We had today this summer day.

The morning felt timeless, a throwback to the 1970s or some nostalgic era where kids rode their bikes and ran free and played hard and got dirty and came home late to supper. All we had to do was close our eyes and imagine: Living here forever.