A hawk opens the quiet sky with its scratchy cry; further up a lone buzzard stirs lazy circles. They follow my husband’s tractor through the fields, but indolently.
Going through the motions, fat with summer’s fill, they await perfect prey scattering in the blade’s wake. I can feel them yawning.
I yawn. The sun, pressing against my skin, slows my weeding. I’d like to curl up on the hot patio stones next to the snake, pull the heat deep into my bones. Become summer.
But I’m fooling myself here.
Fall is in full steady motion, insistent though taking its time, no need to rush, insinuating itself slow slow slowly through the land’s veins, purring, shifting the palette, sharpening the scent. Its sure signs surround me. If I look.
But I choose the hawk hovering, calling, and the hummingbird flirting with the patio flowers that hold their scarlet. I choose the squash swelling in the garden, the pears ripening in the green-topped orchard.
I gaze steadily into summer’s eyes. There’s time yet here.