At your feet, a bee crawls in small circles like a toy unwinding.
Summer specializes in time, slows it down almost to dream.
And the noisy day goes so quiet you can hear
the bedraggled man who visits each trash receptacle
mutter in disbelief: Everything in the world is being thrown away!
Summer lingers, but it’s about ending. It’s about how things
redden and ripen and burst and come down. It’s when
city workers cut down trees, demolishing
one limb at a time, spilling the crumbs
of twigs and leaves all over the tablecloth of street.
– From ‘Late Summer‘ by Jennifer Grotz
In the air I can already feel the lateness of things, the way Autumn is waiting at the back of this month. August can be difficult. Slow, full of regret. For the trips not taken (for the time and money not there to take them). For the progress not being made (for the world is on holiday, or in festival mode). The nights are drawing in without the clear bite of the air to sharpen the mind.
I have news both bad and good, but I’m holding on to all of it until I can find a balance, a way to broach, here. I have questions too, thoughts on what I am writing next, what I’ve written before. After August, I think. Think clearly and articulate after August, after summer has gone. Right now all good and bad are in a blowsy way, hard to grasp without noting their insubstantiability yet.
Sorry to be vague. It’s a vague season. Little golden bees going round and round to nowhere discernible.
If you feel the same, little bee, then I wish you a high wind. I wish you Autumn and the idea of sharp fruit and dying fire on the branches, better than these scattered crumbs.