Summer

It is midsummer and my hair is sticking to my neck.  The air is a living thing, and when I wave my hand through it, it dances between my fingertips.  Cicadas are screaming in an unearthly harmony, loud but invisible.

I’ve only ever seen a handful of them in my life.

I’m walking through the meadow that stretches behind our property, wading through overgrown grass and blooming purple sweet clover.  The sight of their blossoms puts the taste of sugar on my tongue, but never strong enough to linger if I think about it.

Summertime is like the springtime it came from, but slightly off.  Slightly mysterious.  Slightly more.  But only if you’re looking hard.

Only if you pay attention.

Afternoon thunderstorms are when you notice it the most.  Time travels in a funny way, blurring the lines between attentive and dreaming.  Lightning flashes leave with the impression that you’ve seen into another world, but the memory has already fled.  The scent of rain is cleansing, but what it has cleaned I can never put my finger on.

I think there are things hidden in the cracks of nature.

The sun’s warmth is settling into my bones, burrowing into the very marrow, like it’s getting stored away for winter.  I can’t remember feeling cold, but I can picture a tall glass of water with ice cubes clinking against the sides, and the way it fills me after a day in the sun.

I think there is more to discover than I’ll ever live to find.

Summer nights are alive, and they pull at me when I start for bed.  Sometimes, when the night is full and my heart is restless, I will sit outside in my pajamas and watch for shooting stars instead of sleeping.  It is a different kind of rest.

One that is full of wishes.

Cicadas are screaming, the air is alive, and the taste of sugar haunts my tongue.  Summer is here, and it promises forever.

Under the sun, it is such an easy thing to believe.