“…the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” Sylvia Plath
It truly is the odd uneven time.
It is at this cusp of the seasons that we have hunks of hail flying off our metal roof, shocking, drumming an uneven cadence to promote this time of blurrr. From a summer of heat and drought to cold soakers with immediate natural change leaving branches, ripe pinecones and leaves to cover the ground. Tornado watch for this evening… pulling fall into place from the long summer we have had since the short, hastened spring for this year. It was one of those long summers—so long that it was never heralded as it rushed into happening not giving us a chance to savor the slow defrosting of the earth, the apple and cherry blossoms, and the transient Lenten rose. Summer was never anticipated. It just was.
It is over, the afternoon swims watching the blushing sun set, with the water’s highlights changing from blue to purple with glints of the rosy sky. It is over—the time of soaring swallows over our heads, the quick splash of fish, and the proud passagiata of mother sheldrakes followed by her teenaged babies, taking in the pockets of food and warmer currents. It is over, the lovely water floating—surrounded by the ovehead bowl of clouds that only a graphic designer could create of three colors—highlight, midtone and shadow—evenly cut to describe the big shapes that fill our sky. It is over, the high season of bounty—of bowls of raspberries, warm tomatoes, astringent basil and the terra grown treasures even a rainless summer brings to our tables and vases. All of the chopping and washing, saving and freezing promises a small reminder of the season as we huddle by our woodstove—reminding each other of the hot wooden floors, deep cold waters, and the heated breezes that kept us from sleep and work.
We are at the point of gradient..the ombre blend of time and place. It is the time when the trees change just slightly from the summer green to taking on a touch of brown, moving the foliage to olive. The roadside flowers transition to the final state of goldenrod, asters and ripe purple berries. The first red leaf is always of note.