After the drenching rain, the valley wears a green that seems to pulse with its own light.
Cicadas fill the air with their electric song as the late summer sun warms the soaked earth. Tomato plants bow under the weight of ripening fruit, their stems bending toward the soil.
The curtain of humidity rises.
The air hangs like a living presence, embracing the skin with warm, damp touches along the neck and brow. Oppressive. Every breath acknowledges the humidity’s intimate weight. Where heavy air meets cool glass, droplets form and streak down the windows—silent tears marking the boundary between our artificial comfort and nature’s persistent truth.
To step outside in this aging summer is to swim through scent—a blend of green growth and sweet decay suspended in a single breath. This perfume speaks of beginnings and endings intertwined. But unlike tropical plants born to constant warmth, our temperate forest shows signs of fatigue.
Black walnut trees release their weary leaves, surrendering early to the unrelenting heat and nightly storms. The driveway catches these first messengers of autumn—bright yellow against blacktop. Meanwhile, tomatoes on the patio and brambles along the forest edge stretch with new vigor, as if recalling an ancient memory of a warmer earth.
As the tropical heat lingers, insects take full claim of their kingdom. They dig, build, feed, store, fight, mate—their cold blood humming with urgency in the hot air. Their endless chorus rises as if this moment might last forever. This is their season of abundance, their brief reign before the coming chill.
From within its embrace, summer feels eternal.
Only in its passing do we glimpse its true shape.
One Response
nice, well written