an august memory
From the Hillbilly Underground, 2007August. An august month? In the Northern Hemisphere, one that is hot, the heat built up and stored, the lengthening rays like the heat of late afternoon before the sun descends behind the trees of October to cool the breeze.
August. No songs are written about August. Maybe novels, but no songs (that i know of. feel free to correct me). It's a month, i suppose, when singing comes hard, like February, when the winter is taking its final bite out of the weary warriors, when the cold is hanging on to the bitter end, wishing for another day in the month before March comes with its winds to melt and thaw and awaken the hard earth.
But August is the meltingest, crispest heat, when the shine of June and July has done its work to burn the green to crunchy tan, has baked and baked the streets. August blows in with its own aching heat waves, pushing the mercury to its limit, pushing all the limits, razing with fires and lightening and still, oppressive humidity.
August is the sound of late cicadas waiting in the trees, done mating, calling out the degrees. The drying leaves rustle in a trick of a breeze that only stirs a humid soup of waters. No work is done. Only sitting, dripping, drinking iced tea or tepid water from the tap to not shock the system. These are days to eat icecream for dinner, too hot to cook anything, tempting to stand, indecisive for minutes (upon minutes) staring closely into the icebox, cold fumes pouring out, condensing, disappearing, into August's voracious hotness.
These are days when the blue of the heavens is washed out from the glare of too many dry dawns, like an old postcard sent from grandpa to grandma before they were married. These are days to close the curtains before morning passes, to hoard the cool of shadows and banish the sun to out-of-doors.
These are days when boys and girls find puddles of creeks to jump in, not minding the streams of sweat if a treasure might be on the other side, running for a moment then happy to quit and drop dramatically to the yard, and sprawl, a whining dead man, "IT'S HOT!"
These are the last days, speeding by, and you don't know whether to hold them or let them slip quickly to the past, crowded up in a scrapbook of one more summer gone, one more stash of snapshots from the free days before the yellow buses grumble to the doorstep and drive us into September.
A tricky invitation, to go with that lunatic driver into a cooler air where you can breathe easier, run farther, but must trade your freedom for a day in classrooms and evenings in your bedroom with trig and history and essay writing. And which are the days that prepare us for the years to come?
August. No songs are written about August. Maybe novels, but no songs (that i know of. feel free to correct me). It's a month, i suppose, when singing comes hard, like February, when the winter is taking its final bite out of the weary warriors, when the cold is hanging on to the bitter end, wishing for another day in the month before March comes with its winds to melt and thaw and awaken the hard earth.
But August is the meltingest, crispest heat, when the shine of June and July has done its work to burn the green to crunchy tan, has baked and baked the streets. August blows in with its own aching heat waves, pushing the mercury to its limit, pushing all the limits, razing with fires and lightening and still, oppressive humidity.
August is the sound of late cicadas waiting in the trees, done mating, calling out the degrees. The drying leaves rustle in a trick of a breeze that only stirs a humid soup of waters. No work is done. Only sitting, dripping, drinking iced tea or tepid water from the tap to not shock the system. These are days to eat icecream for dinner, too hot to cook anything, tempting to stand, indecisive for minutes (upon minutes) staring closely into the icebox, cold fumes pouring out, condensing, disappearing, into August's voracious hotness.
These are days when the blue of the heavens is washed out from the glare of too many dry dawns, like an old postcard sent from grandpa to grandma before they were married. These are days to close the curtains before morning passes, to hoard the cool of shadows and banish the sun to out-of-doors.
These are days when boys and girls find puddles of creeks to jump in, not minding the streams of sweat if a treasure might be on the other side, running for a moment then happy to quit and drop dramatically to the yard, and sprawl, a whining dead man, "IT'S HOT!"
These are the last days, speeding by, and you don't know whether to hold them or let them slip quickly to the past, crowded up in a scrapbook of one more summer gone, one more stash of snapshots from the free days before the yellow buses grumble to the doorstep and drive us into September.
A tricky invitation, to go with that lunatic driver into a cooler air where you can breathe easier, run farther, but must trade your freedom for a day in classrooms and evenings in your bedroom with trig and history and essay writing. And which are the days that prepare us for the years to come?
And here are photos from the first night of August, spent sitting in traffic on the BQE. Otherwise titled, "unexpected fun in a Hyundai."
The joy before us...
The joy beside us...
The joy behind us...
Blue eyes in a red face...
posted by ceciliabrie at
5:42 PM
2 Comments:
i love this post!! you perfectly (and beautifully) capture the dog days of summer.
By
Dawn, at 12:55 AM
I'm glad she put "the joy beside us..." rather than "the whiny boyfriend beside me," which might have been more accurate but would have lacked panache! =)
By
Ed, at 10:18 AM
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