Nothing Stays The Same Forever

Only the third day in August the pool water is eighty-three degrees, air temp maybe ninety and if you stood in the late afternoon sun your bathing suit was dry in a couple of minutes. But in the shade when the air moves something tingles and you goose-bump because Autumn already has its feelers out, tiny chilly tendrils slipping south along stone walls and in those low woodsy places where the shadow is first to creep and you know that when the days are short enough in six or seven weeks, it’ll make its move.

Wood smoke, golden red and orange leaves being blown from the trees into long windrows pointing south, air so clear you can hear a screen door slam a mile off, apples, apple pie, apple cider, seeing your breath for the first time in months.  I’m looking forward to it I guess, but right now I’d rather swim.