Summer’s long good-bye

I was a little hasty in declaring the end of summer. It told us it would be going weeks ago, but we’re still deep in heat and humidity, hot sun and the shimmering buzz of cicadas. Too high to be a drone – too low to be a whine – soporific.

The air is blurred with moisture, like looking through tears.

Where the sun shines strongest, the leaves have begun to turn. Maples, staghorn sumacs blaze red. There’s a clump of yellow in the midst of a green ash.

Up above thunderheads crash back upon themselves like surf, but come on anyway. I hear – no, feel
– low boomers, far away. A gust of rain and then nightfall.