Here I am, at the end of July. ACRA is ended and August yawns before me, the last hurrah of Summer before the onset of Fall. The air is heavy with humidity, but tinged with the promise of cooler days to come. August is the down slope of Summer, the relaxation of everything before the harvest to come.
This morning I stepped out on to my porch and the chorus of lazy crickets sang the song of late Summer. Too tired to play individual parts in a square dance, they lazily droned a dirge in unison. I could feel the moisture in the air,and yet just a hint of chill that wanted me to pull my robe closed. It smelled of the tired green of the yard, the fading flowers of the garden. We aren't quite to the reckless abandonment of Autumn, but past the blowsy fullness of Summer.
August is a month for the pool, the beach, day trips, and afternoons in the hammock. It is the scent of chlorine and sunscreen, the sound of surf, and the grit of sand underfoot. The trees sag under the weight of Summer dust, the flowers droop for want of water. Nights are devoid of the magic of fireflies, and the crickets sound frantic in that late Summer way.
I feel the lazy, slow, dying in my bones. I want nothing more than to dig my toes in the sand and meditate on the ceaseless waves, or to stretch out and listen to the sounds of the local pool. Gardening holds little allure, cooking even less. I want to relax, stretch out and soak in the last moments of Summer.
I feel like August.