Sweet summer decline

Hot dog

It’s been hot here this week.

Dog-gone hot. Tongue-hanging-out-of-the-mouth hot. Popsicles-in-the-afternoon-and-then-ice-cream-in-the-evenings hot. The gin is living in the freezer, only coming out briefly in the evenings to mingle with tonic, lime, and ice in our little sippy cups.

Summer has come, and hit with full force.

And I’m not complaining one tiny itsy bit.

This is what I crave all winter long: the sunlight until 9 pm, the windows open, the evenings on the deck, watching bats (yes! we’ve seen bats again this week after none for two years!), fireflies, the stars, the milky way, the satellites gliding in their orbits.

Sure, it’s hot and a bit sweaty and sometimes you don’t feel like moving, but, then, it’s summer. Why move? The view from the deck chairs is awfully pretty. There’s that big glass bottle of sun tea. And did I mention popsicles, ice cream, and chilled gin?

Yes, there’s work to do, and that darn lawn needs mowing again ten minutes after you finished mowing it. But even when the days are busy, the days are longer and things feel less rushed. Well, a little bit less rushed.

The other day, Gryfe and I took our usual walk into the valley. It was hot. I had this song in my head. The wildflowers were brilliant. The birds were all napping. Nothing but the river was moving. The river was just rolling and splashing and singing along.

Buttercup and arc


Purple clover

Jewel Weed


Ompompanoosuc - toward the swimming hole