a subtle season

This time of year reminds me of my long-held conviction that there are more than four seasons.  The last two weeks of August and the first two weeks of September are neither Summer or Fall. Although the days are too warm for Autumn, they are noticeably shorter, and the heat and light are not quite the same as that of Summer.  In my neck of the woods the afternoons now are filled with loud choruses of cicadas, chirping as constant as a ticking clock, till the sound fades from consciousness, like white noise. The oaks and walnuts and maples in the neighborhood are still green, but after a rain the roads and walkways are strewn with leaves now, dead and wrinkled.

At sunset, a welcome coolness sets in.  Weeks before when darkness finally came the day’s heat lingered in the humid air.

I don’t know why, but I am drawn to these short, transitional seasons.  I want to be the one who dives into the river in late September and climbs the highest hill to the last patch of hidden snow in early April.