The end of summer this year

is like a personal assault like a

slap from a wet leaf, the leaves

fluttering down and the colors just

turning and sun setting less and less far

north and the mist on the river the acorns

landing like a shot on the deck and the yellow

school buses practicing their routes, and I swear I

saw ceramic pumpkins for sale, it’s only August for

Pete’s sake, I gauge how much food we should eat up at

the cabin, and drinks, and think of letting the air out of the

rafts even though it seems we just put the air in, spring pushing

so far into summer that it was July before we could use the dock,

the water deep and cold when it should have been low and languid

and now the kayak paddle drips cold water into my lap and by eight o’

clock it’s pretty dark, I can hear the dog whimpering in his dream on his bed

in the living room, his muzzle getting gray and there are not as many summers

for him, I’ll get 90 if I’m lucky even though I’ve mostly loved fall, and winter, this year

I craved summer and its bright greenness and tomatoes at the farmer’s market and live

music and long bike rides long past 8 p.m. and the hay bales holding down the fields, they’ve

bundled up the time, straw by straw until the weight of memory pins the acres to the earth and oh

it hangs here, for just one more moment and then it’s

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