As Summer Fades

I walk up toward my back hedge, carrying a bowl of split and rotten apples. The last few, I didn’t manage to eat. I toss them among the feet of the trees. They’ll make a perfect snack for some foraging critters. I straighten. The wind picks up, waving its invisible fingers through the leaves. A flash of red catches my eye. A spray of bright, rusty-colored leaves is woven through the others— the mosaic of autumn peeking through.

I turn and gaze down into the valley. The sun bisects the hills, and the trees still hold their verdant cover, but I can see it’s changed. The golden rays tease out other glimmers among the quilt of crowns. In these moments, I realize how fragile summer is— it can seem so robust while it’s with us. Hot and strong. Full of flowers and green. Things that grow ripe. But how quickly it fades. In a week— maybe two. The lush hits its peak and then immediately disappears.

A train rushes into the valley— invisible here for the trees and houses. It sounds like a rushing storm clacking over the ties. In a moment, it will be gone. Just like summer, rushing around the bend.

Of all the seasons in this region, summer burns the fiercest and leaves the quickest. You only get a moment to catch its rays, brilliant in the valley, warm on your hardwood floors, golden at the late evening sunsets, pink as the daylight fades.