tonight the temp is just right cold enough to be colder than I can just smell the sweet leaves that fell wet so many more to go but this line between seasons in change I lament the summer but feel ready for fall prepared by all the signals my mind is made ready standing-waiting in a train station stop waiting to board the transition on
notes… just walked outside, my windows are open but I am not getting inside this lovely wave of fall air, refreshment indeed in some sense, not reprieve from a scorching day, more like comfort in a perfect blanket zone, comfortable, soothing, but yet hints of fall, the slightly sweet smell of rotting leaves, dying leaves, the intoxicating sweet smell of decay, hinted, and the cricket choir is still living, and loud, but not as much or so much, some what subdued, like the temperature, a bull tamed, a wild horse tamed but yet will fade away into the cold, but right now that feels OK, no, it feels fantastic, relief… sweet belief. oh yeah, and this was something I just wrote in my head when I stepped outside, so, that is what it is, kind of haiku feel…
slow the moon slumber the night summer night august swoon the air is sweating out from under my skin the mosquitoes are quite in love, enamored in mood, feasting on blood drinking up the night fill on through an uncaring host no tail to swat no care to move for my backyard is no bayou no beasts are lurking there, parched lips brown bottle cold sip of beer nearly satisfies, baking on the other side of the sun direction under the moon’s eye kept from sleep and dream invisible mist heavy surrounds gravity in shackles down to the ground I melt into my chair into the scene bring me rest, being me sleep my flesh weeps into the air
does it make me strange to have an almost romantic affinity for summer thunderstorms?
the sound of distant thunder on the evening, no, not menacing, or foreboding, a promised release from the iron grip of summer’s heat, a most welcome visitor to this house in this hour, peak of summer thunderstorms have a different feel than other times of year, with sharpened brash fury they also bring comforting relief, there is the slow approach as the sound grows closer, the ground shakes slightly and then ever more slight, leaves tremble, forearm hairs begin cross conversation and stand on end at attention, every inch of air, every pound of ground knows what is coming, anticipation swells in all the land, then, without notice, without a proper introduction, the drops come, first, single file mostly, marking circular targets near my feet, then multiplying, uncontrollably, as if to color rain by number every square inch of space, soon all the ground is a tapestry of water either falling or catching or running, a thousand drummers pouring down aloud, no, now the sound of ten thousand drums exploding at once, and instantly the break, a crack of back, broken grip, snap the whip against the humidity’s oppressive lock, that stranglehold fades from the neck of day, freed chains drop with heft, relief, nature bringing balance back onto itself, in an instant, all the world revels in the scene, and I observer the cocoon broken to luscious butterfly.
the sound of distant thunder on the evening carriage and main approaching kicked up dust double barrel loaded the crash of thor’s hammer electrical power to break the sky open to shake – the very ground bathed in streaming rivers the world begins to drink in sweet glory the world will drink her fill
there is humid, and then there is HUMID, some wise man said sometime or something… yesterday was one of those days, the kind of weighty yoke that slows the world down to near motionless, every effort seems an affront to good sense, sweat is not an option just a nod to how much and how swept, you can see the air frying and understand how mirages work, adding to this physical dissonance is that strange sound, some might describe this as a buzzing sound but yet to me the truth lies somewhere on the spectrum elsewhere, maybe the union of a common snake’s hiss and a raged rattlesnake’s rattle, and like the waves of heat that seem to break upon your face that sound is much the same, rising and falling in some strangely robotic chorus of the natural world, is this displeasure? a warning? of course the mystery is gone, we know cicadas are the cause, but as I regularly do (and I do) I wonder about the time before these things were plain and easy to find out (in the palm of your hand if you will), if you close your eyes and listen to the sound, what mysterious creatures or demons abound? I imagine trees dripping with perfectly camouflagedpit vipers, curled around the branches like leaves among leaves, ready to strike at any passer by who’s senses are worn down by the withering heat, or maybe these are the sirens of lore, just land born, lulling you with their waves of song into a desperate shore, to what end? only they know, so they sing some more bars…
you know, maybe I am overthinking this, the actuality, the reality, the actual cause of the noise is something one might not believe, little bugs, critters, supposed dwellers in the cellar of the hierarchy of life, cicadas, vibrating a membrane to the point of insane, a coital chorus of love, I suppose we all dance to a different song, but that sound, my mind is instantly tied and kidnapped to the end of summer, the lazy hazy days of late summer, is this August yet? no… not quite, but this sure feels like it, the end of summer, the closing of the funhouse is around the corner, but yet I want more, but as many years pass, so do the chances, so heed the song, and remember this is all, passing.
those trinkets that cause an instant memory jog or jump, instant time travel backwards to a specific happenstance or thought, these, are triggers. here we are in the throes of summer, no, no, that doesn’t sound right, the grip of summer, no, neither, that isn’t quite it, does not convey the feel at all, “here we are traversing the winding path through the baking jungle of summer” (OK, I can live with that one). summer rain. a trigger, in a couple of ways, let me explain if you will lend me your time. the first- driving, driving home on the parkway, windows down (which in itself is part of the freedom of summer anyway), the pavement has been beaten flat with bombardment, rays of sunshine flagellating on the surface for all the day, the visual aspect of heat belly dances along the surface in the distance distorting the air itself, all the while this solar energy is soaking into the black sponge supporting all means of traffic, and then the break, a dark grey breach rolls in, like an instant the rain is unleashed but yet still with the sun not quite out of sight so the light bounces off the rain, showering the earth in a million rainbow shards, the mixture is almost confusing to the mind, rain and sun combined? how can this be, even today my jaded mind is always surprised by this, this I have seen one thousand times at least, then it hits me, this strange smell, intoxicating even if it should not be, there is this strange combination of asphalt, oil, dirt, grime and what not that is released into the atmosphere as the rain quenches audibly the scorched plains before me, almost like a garage but some how, dare I say, refreshing? I know, it may sound strange, but it is the instant trigger of summer road trip, maybe being stuck in a car for hours dulls the senses and this strange invasion of odor somehow seduces reason into being non reason, but that smell, somehow, invigorating, a sunny rain in the summer on a hot road.
the second– and I will stick with the theme, the little dots begin to overlap on the steps, faster now they overstep the next trying to outdo the first and last, until there is a thunderous downpour top to bottom straight down, the land has been wishing for this all day, green once wilted all around is starting to spring into shape and take a sip, no a gulp, no the rain is running in and out of their mouths of capacity overflow, finding new lakes and pools in the sidewalks bent, rolling in mini flash floods aside the curbs, the house gutters come alive like instant log flumes, there is so much rain in the air it commandeers the air itself, there is a smell to it, a presence of palpable odor, a musty mist of sorts, as if a drop has hit the hot earth and exploded into your direction like an aerosol bomb , over and again, the suspended rain is what fills your mouth and lungs now, you feel the bend and bough of the grass as the bath flashes over and relieves the yolk of the combined heat of the day, you can feel the oppression being washed away, I feel the same, you almost get used to the blanket of humidity, the heavy air on your shoulders, combined with a pharaoh of intense sun, there seems to no reprieve, sweat nearly keeps the beast at bay but in itself provides very little relief, but that rain, a cleansing time, off comes my hat to look skyward and let the drops wash the sweat from my face, is there ever a more clean feeling, than this? all time falls, I feel like a pure radiant soul in a waterfall…