There has been a shift.
Subtle, as always.
I have to turn on a lamp before going to bed at night.
My toes are chilly heading out to work early mornings
and I may have to give up wearing sandals.
Jack now turns on his headlights while driving home from work.
Small but meaningful changes.
I sense a desperate longing to e-x-t-e-n-d each day into far more hours.
My fingers hesitate turning the next page on the calendar--to September.
The geese and Sandhill Cranes are gathering in huge flocks, drawing those
photographers with lenses as large as periscopes on a submarine.
The flowers-ah! the myriad of flowers- are at their finest,
massive and bright and pretentious in their abundance.
I want to gaze on them and believe summer is NOT ending,
there are still weeks left of this beauty,
these velvety green lawns,
blue skies and puffy white clouds,
shorts and T-shirts...
But then I hear the call of the geese flying overhead each morning and evening,
honking in that melancholy sound that stirs something within me.
Even as I write this, they are flying overhead in V's--
practicing, warming up, strengthening their wing muscles.
If only their flights were silent it wouldn't be so bad.
But that calling to one another--
it speaks to me of wood fires,
soup simmering on the stove, blankets airing on the clothesline
after being folded away during the warmer months,
replacing the bathing suits and towels that have hung on that line for weeks.
Autumn. My favorite season yet so hard for me these past 3 years.
The brief bittersweetness of it means I will be packing up to leave Alaska.
A place I have learned to love, especially for the dear and special people
that will remain here after I leave.
Be still, you silly geese.
Linger a bit longer, lovely sun.
Trick me if you must. Let me stay in denial just a bit.
I'm not ready to go yet...