Signs of deep Summer

Roadsides are sporting patches of bergamot and black-eyed Susans. Some fields of corn are starting to tassel. Flocks of swifts or swallows (both?) are gathering on phone and electric wires. We’re into the second half of July, deep Summer. Are we now at Summer’s nadir or its peak, or is there a better word? Remember, one can only go halfway into a forest before starting back out. Is this also true of seasons?

roadside bergamot in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night the temperature dropped into the mid-50’s. This morning’s air held the slightest hint of autumn. The Druid harvest festival of Lammas, or Lughnasadh is two weeks away, on August 1, followed by the beginning of meteorological Autumn on September 1 and then the Equinox, about three weeks later. There’s still plenty of time to enjoy summer before we reach my favorite season.

This morning I ate one of the juicier peaches I’ve ever enjoyed. Peaches are one of my summer symbols, along with heat, humidity, thunderstorms, ice cream cones, and bugs. Guess which are my favorites.

Yesterday I finally caught in a live trap the chipmunk that lived under the front stoop. Apparently mice ate the peanut butter I had been using for bait. I reset the trap with an apple core for bait and a day or so later, success! The critter has been translocated to some woods across a nearby river so I’m not expecting a return. We now have to keep our eyes open to see if anyone else moves in.

Summer Haibun

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

To everything, there is a season of parrots. Instead of feathers, we searched the sky for meteors on our last night. Salamanders use the stars to find their way home. Who knew they could see that far, fix the tiny beads of their eyes on distant arrangements of lights so as to return to wet and wild nests? Our heads tilt up and up and we are careful to never look at each other. You were born on a day of peaches splitting from so much rain and the slick smell of fresh tar and asphalt pushed over a cracked parking lot. You were strong enough—even as a baby—to clutch a fistful of thistle and the sun himself was proud to light up your teeth when they first swelled and pushed up from your gums. And this is how I will always remember you when we are covered up again: by the pale mica flecks on your shoulders. Some thrown there from your own smile. Some from my own teeth. There are not enough jam jars to can this summer sky at night. I want to spread those little meteors on a hunk of still-warm bread this winter. Any trace left on the knife will make a kitchen sink like that evening air

the cool night before
star showers: so sticky so
warm so full of light

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