At the other end of this day, a storm moves in. Bands of dark gray move toward the backyard and the wind picks up. Undersides of leaves on distant trees flutter and reveal their lighter color. The goldfinches of the still morning have disappeared. Other birds are restless, and a group of crows appears briefly, high in the sky, swirling in the clouds before shrieking and escaping.
I take refuge beneath the canopy. It will be the last year for this one – it’s tattered and torn and had a good run. Not unlike the end of summer. We’re all a little bruised and battered. Work hard, play hard, die hard, and hopefully we are better for it. Summer can be exhausting – the heat, the fun, the activities – and it sometimes seems to go against its own rules of relaxation. There is effort in constantly trying to be lazy.
And so I welcome the storm. The rain begins and the wind picks up. Suddenly the air is cooler. Though the summer wasn’t a lengthy scorching one, it is a slight relief. The garden needs its rest. To ask for it to keep up a continual show would be to ask for too much. And really, I’d appreciate it far less if it did this the year-round.
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