I love summer (“Ma saison préférée,” borrowing from the title of one of my favorite André Téchiné films)–heat, even humidity and long days of light. I’m told this summer was beautiful. I thought it was unnaturally cool.
We had wild discovery indoors and out: a black snake in the tub, no fatter than Mark’s index finger, but long enough to wrap around Nastassja Kinski; a small, dead bat in the wood stove, somehow still hanging upside down; and in the dry Groverkill, a mother bear leading her two gorgeous cubs (Leo lookalikes at the distance) over the stones.
And it’s been a chilly September. But in a spirit of resistance, I’m holding onto summer until the equinox arrives tomorrow night. And maybe even after that (in a spirit of denial), for as long as the dragonflies (even though their numbers are diminished) swoop over the lawn in their elegant flight paths.