Most days the sun brings only just but sometimes dawn comes changing things around and just by sounds of whipping leaves and bumping branches you can tell even in the grey premorning light that something’s gone or hidden and there’s a new something in its place.
This morning it was summer that was stolen and a pseudo-autumn left behind.
Last night’s rain and wind gave way to a sun shining all the brighter in its trials to overcome the cooling wind that drove itself back from a murmur to a frenzied whoosh! Long legged jeaned and sweatered I take a quick note of what must have happened overnight: crabapples ready now, even as the young forkhorn munched them days before their bitterness was brought to full maturity; pears above a certain height that he can’t reach ’cause deer won’t go up stepladders and I will; peaches maybe in another week or so, I need them extra ripe for wine; and grapes about two weeks away from royal purple.
And so I plan my life around the harvest that this morning’s wind announces. And though it’s cool for August the wind will die around late afternoon and supper will be the fruits of the vegie garden choppped into a blend of yellows, greens and reds with just a sprinkle of baby fresh cilantro.
Gazpacho is all of summer saved in a bowl of soup.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology