Here I am procrastinating cleaning out my closets, talking about the arrival of fall. For two days, temperatures were around 102 degrees. When I ran out to the car barefoot to get a pen, I actually burned the bottom of my feet. “It’s the last blast of summer,” I said.
Yesterday sitting on my porch, contemplating a beautiful metallic beetle, a fresh breeze hit me in the face. I looked up and dark clouds were roiling toward me, “Here comes Thor,” I thought, “To drive summer away.” Thunder growled and the wind blew the blooms off the crepe myrtles in a shower of lavender; leaves swirled in the wind and I noticed some were yellow. The last blast of summer.
Today fall is here. Its arrival is more subtle than in northern climes. What has changed? The light has changed, but how? I am an artist, why can’t I figure that out? The best I can say is that the light is bluer, whereas it was yellower before. The shadows look different, more crisp?
The last blast of summer, like the final spasms of an empire, can be violent. But life goes on and one season follows another. Now for those closets…
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