A Little Prelude

Yesterday was the first time since about the summer solstice that we did not have a dewpoint above 60. And frankly, most of July involved 70+ dewpoints with a daily 110 heat index. As a result, several plants are showing strange spotting.

The monarchs are finally here. The aster and goldenrod buds are nearly formed. Liatris aspera is about to burst open. I even noticed some turtleheads peeking out from their stalks.

Though enduring this summer's heat was awful, its having seemingly passed means that fall is nigh. Too nigh. Maybe tonight, given forecast low temps in the 50s. What do you do on these pre-fall days, when in the shade your hair stands up on end, but in the sun you sweat? I find this mix very sweet. In winter I enjoy driving with the sunroof open and the heat blowing hard on my legs. I like different textures in one bite of food. I like to bridge the gap, to feel the space between opposites--maybe this is why I'm always tempted to put my finger in an electrical socket.

I'm waxing here as another season appears to be suddenly waning. Fall always comes with a sense of apprehension, whether it's the rush to soak up as much warmth as possible--like the dragonflies on the west side of the fence at dusk--or my conditioning of an impending school year. This fall I'm not teaching, I'll be writing a 90,000 word memoir and applying for academic teaching jobs for 2012. There is a void, a space, an uncertainty, an unknowing that demands practicing faith in the most religious sense possible. Fall is very ascetic. I have always thought of fall as my favorite season--the ghosts of summer lingering, fingering through the cool corners of daylight, hope and dread intertwined like mating monarch butterflies, something, something is close by and everything is more alert in that steady waiting.