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Summer’s End
For the first time in my entire life, the end of summer has sparked within me a feeling of melancholy. Time was, I would rejoice at the end of hot weather and welcome the cooler temperatures. But this year, the approaching winter is heralded by the awareness of many things new to me, things of which I have become aware, things that leave me sitting for long stretches with head down and eyes unseeing. This is the world, and I must, as Dylan Thomas admonished, have faith. Goodbye, summertime of this year. You will have passed forever in just a few more thumps of the heart. And Happy Birthday, Weia…
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Enmity Between
The first day of summer yesterday, and it felt like it. A heavy miasma of humidity hung over these mountains for the past four days, perhaps to be broken up tonight by the rain falling just now. The temperatures are supposed to be milder today, and perhaps the creatures of the land will calm down and be less restive. I celebrated Father’s Day by being snakebit. The dogs were at the side of the house, barking at something and giving it Hail Columbia when my wife went to investigate. She returned with the news that a snake was under one of the blueberry bushes. When I reached the scene, I…
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Hourglass
Summer is on us in full force. Driving to work this morning, the haze in the air gave a taste of drowsiness, of lassitude. The mountains to the south of us are famously known as the Great Smoky Mountains, but the Clinch Mountains in which I live and move and have my daily being are smoky enough under their own rippling power. I passed a group of cows with their calves and noticed one little heifer with a white face, placid beneath a locust tree. She looked as if she’d forgotten to remove her cold cream when she tumbled out of bed at first light. I believe our eyes met…
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June Into July
There he is again, above me, half-watching me as I am half-watching him. As I write this, the hummingbird is on the telephone wire over my head, his tiny feet curled around the wire, his baton of a bill moving left and right, conducting the orchestra only he and his kin can hear. The summer day is hot and still, and much quieter than the summer Sundays of my youth, the sultry days down in the Delta when the reedy drone of locusts and katydids stretched across the hours and surprised you at night when it began to fade. Quieter here, yes, and perhaps not as hot, but hot still.…