Summer

The Newness of You

They have taken quite some time to show up, but at last, they are here in all their exotic glory.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Air so thick I can cut it with a knife

and then watch slabs fall with pudding-like thuds

at my feet onto the slimy grasses. 

I can wipe the wet mist from my face

as if I had been crying “repentlessly”. 

Where do the birds hide their naked fledglings? 

Where do the bees conceal themselves for days? 

The tree frogs and the spadefoots sing for hours, 

a festival of Huge and Small Leap Day. 

The slow turtles explore cool wet pavement

naïve to the jeopardy that awaits. 

And most dangerous of all woodland life,

the mosquitoes sing in high pitched, fated

annoyance everywhere that warm breath flows.

Deep emerald shade hides the small mammals
Frozen and watchful, certain they're unseen.
There is a pulsing; can nature find breath?
At night the breeze does not rise to cool us.
In the day the sun bravely scatters bright
Patches that have contrast to catch the eye,
But fail to pierce the hard and deep shadows
Beneath the green canopy of large, still leaves
That cluster in hushed anticipation
Reminding me to venture quietly
As I feel I'm alien in my land.

I shall sit until air kisses my face
and the trees wave green flags and dance again.

It is Amungus

The rains are gentle or heavy or windy or calm, but in every single case, they are frequent and persistent. How long can we hang on? It means I am not dragging a hose across the lawn to the herb bed. It means I have to fertilize my potted plants again as their soil has been soaked and drained of nutrition. I am amazed that my pots of geraniums against the railings of my deck are still alive as they prefer the sunnier drier climate of California. Have you seen how big geranium blossoms get there? Have you seen how big every flower gets there??  We have had so much constant rain that the trimming of geraniums that I did a few days ago to get the pots to bush more have not died.  These are clippings which I threw over the deck railing to the lawn below and are still blooming and looking as if they are air plants as I gaze down on them from my perch above as they lie on the lawn below. 

The woods are pulsing like some great, green giant flexing its scales on either side of my house and threatening to smother me from the sun if take one misstep.  Birds can completely hide in the camouflage and all I hear is their disembodied song as if coming from a foreign land.  The new fawn and her mother are almost ghosts as they dart between deep shade and deeper shade.

My walk to the dock takes me by these exotic emergents, some already sampled for flavor by that annoying squirrel.

I remain the small player in this season of growth.

Personalities

The day is warm but not hot, and last night's heavy rain has filled the crockery birdbath again. The male cardinal flies in with two attentive stops on the deck railing to survey the territory. He has lost his bright sexy red and is now into the faded color of a harried parent. When he feels safe, he perches on the edge of the birdbath and swishes his face back and forth a few times across the surface to test the temperature. When he is satisfied he plops into the bath and splashes for a few minutes and then perches and shakes in a nearby bush while the female follows him and attends to her ablutions. They are methodical and careful and do not stay long and soon return to their noisy singing in the trees. 

The titmouse, on the other hand, flies in with lots of tweets and acrobatics and skids to a crash into the bird bath without caution or fear. She flops and sprays and shakes for quite some time before the male shows up and perches in the nearby lime tree to survey the area. When she has gotten so wet she looks half her size and her little perk at the top of her head is mashed down and she is the color of gray mud, she disappears into the edge of the woods to shake freely before her partner gets his turn.  Water ends up everywhere. They are enthusiastic about life and perhaps that is why I sometimes find their feathers in a catastrophic pile in the lawn.

Joy

The weather is cool, which I love, at my home. Hanging in the low 70's is perfect for easing into the next season and I wish it would last even longer.  I love sweater weather when the sun is shining or non-sweater weather when there is a slightly cool breeze under a warming sun.  But I do not have to heat a swimming pool or get children off early in the morning in swimsuits to Team.

In Southern California the sun almost always shines (at least that is what they want you to believe) and summer is there in full swing in early June.  Above is a place called Newport Beach where you can forget for a moment all the worries of the world and pretend you just got out of school for the next three months and have all that free time ahead of you.