“I always seem to harbor a childlike hope through the berry-stained months of June and July that summer will be for keeps. But then a day comes in early fall to remind me why it should end, after all. In September the quality of daylight shifts toward flirtation. The green berries on the spicebush shrubs along our lane begin to blink red, first one and then another, like faltering but resolute holiday lights. The woods fill with the restless singing of migrant birds warming up to the proposition of flying south. The cool air makes us restless too: jeans and sweater weather, perfect for a hike.”
That was yesterday for me, when, after the weekend storms, the humidity broke for the first time in months, the light changed almost imperceptibly – turned from an obtrusive heat lamp into something both crisp and dimming at the same time, both sharp and sweet, a green apple light that, as Barbara writes, “shifts toward flirtation.” I want it to stay like this, my previous header, one of my favorite pictures from Cape Cod:
But then I come across days like yesterday, and quotes like this one from Barbara Kingsolver that are so perfectly rendered you can practically hear the crinkle of golden leaves underfoot, taste the bitter sweetness of pumpkin ale, feel the tattered woolen warmth of an old favorite sweater – and the pleasing duties of fall don’t seem so bad.
Finished reading Sebastian Junger’s War and Erik Larsen’s In the Garden of Beasts; resumed reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle – picking up where I left off, right on time: Chapter 14, “You Can’t Run Away on Harvest Day: September“