Aw, Gus

August almost slipped out the door while I was mooning over England, rediscovering novels (Let the Great World Spin; Noah’s Compass) and attempting to be get back in harness.

Tomorrow will look and feel like today, hot and sun-bleached and panting like an old dog, but tomorrow will be September. Cape August will be out of view.

I took a parting look yesterday in the cool of the morning out at Rock Meadow in Belmont. The early signs of autumning are subtle but there. Milkweed pods swelling (left). Tansy buttons going brown. Queen Anne’s Lace fisting up into dry little bird’s nests. A sweet earthy smell and the light at a lower angle—morning light, true, but also a reminder that the sun’s arc is lower and finishing sooner. The trees: tireder. The clouds: higher and chalkier, like cuttlebone in a sky of parakeet blue.

And of course, behind it all the threnody of crickets. (…aw, Gus, aw, Gus, aw, Gus…)