It’s clear. The summer has officially passed. Not that I needed the local forecaster’s imprimatur on this year’s change of season since summer, after all, never fully materialized. When I jumped up from the dinner table to take a brief walk before sundown, the air felt downright chilly and the water-starved trees were showing a lackluster green. Enough leaves had fallen to reveal an occasional hole in the canopy. Smatterings of yellow caught my eye and leaves pooled on the path, signalling the shift that is imminent.
The season of school nights began weeks ago, of course, drawing those with children away from yards and evening walks. Once the pool shutters for the year and the hourly lifeguard horns quiet, the cacaphony of summer yields to the simple piercing buzz of cicadas. Since the grass never died this August as it normally would, the rumble of lawnmowers remains a Saturday morning staple, competing with the cicadas for first chair in the neighborhood noise section.
On my briefest of walks I observed the dying back of some of the bountiful gardens that entertained me this summer, including my own. I’ve purchased burgundy and harvest gold mums and parked them on my porch to cheer me up and leave some measure of color to tide me over until autumn rains down a hued carpet of its own.