My fingers are rough and dry, like the lawn. We set sprinklers and I wring my hands with lotion. Despite the sunscreen, my face has turned brown. No need for make-up to add color to my usual winter pallor. The neighbor’s field is turning color too, a yellow haze over green. It is nearly July. Better get busy with all of summer before the field ripens to golden brown and I must get in my car to leave for another wet winter.
The days are already getting shorter, though it is not yet noticeable. My eyes are awash with summer green and in the distance a few black cows are grazing on that richness. Birds call from every direction and the sprinkler in the yard repeats summer…summer…summer. I know everything changes, but just now I am entrenched in the season. It is a time for the meeting of industry and relaxation.
My dreams have me elsewhere. They are misty dreams with no discernable location or plot, but I am always surprised when I wake up to be here. The sun still rises in the far north window, though June is ending and our hemisphere begins to turn away from the light. But there are still weeks of this summer paradise.