Coolsville

It's August in only the strictest sense: If you look at the calendar, you'll see that the biggest word on the page with today's date on it is the word "August." But really, it's early fall, before the first frosts, when the nights are cool. It's 5:49 a.m., dark and even a little chilly. You can feel the wheels turning, the celestial clock-gears clicking along as the seasons have their quarterly changing of the guard. The crickets and katydids are singing, but in my mind they sound subdued, pensive, aware that things are not what they were.

The crickets may not rejoice to feel the coolness, but I do—I congratulate myself for having survived another summer. I seem to recall writing some weeks back that it was so hot and humid that I felt I could be carved into slices, like a soft cheese, but I don't feel that way now.

OK, the back still hurts a little bit, so I'll get up now and walk around with my coffee cup.