It’s dark again. Not so for the past two months. One would fall to sleep in sunlight, wake at mid-morning lightness for the ‘man-walk’ to drain the bladder; no night light needed. At ‘daybreak,’ when the cats meowed, pleading for food (or attention), it was light. When the second, or third, or fourth awakening occurred, it was bright. Bulbs lighting hallways and rooms had become a thing of the past winter.
Not so tonight. Before midnight, the stairwell motion lights flickered in the jostling darkness. The horizon is filled with the heavier shades of blues and grays and dark umbers rather than the lighter pinks and crimsons with pale azures that previously brightened the midnight skies.
Summer is not over, it is not gone, but it quietly escapes at an increasing pace. The waters are still warm and the winds still temperate, but the subtle signs of winter’s encroachment announce its presence. Winter does not control the night, not yet, but its grasp is firm on summer’s destiny. Summer’s long carefree dance becomes weighted down by tomorrows growing nights.
Those with self-awareness are reigned in to enjoy their days and early evenings as winter’s encroachment intrudes into our consciousness, it announces its unstoppable presence with the reddening of tomatoes, the leggy Petunias, the frantic motions of the yard squirrels with their gathering caches.
Summer is here, she has not departed, but her dance card is filled, and the orchestra begins to tire. The evenings grow short, and there’s little doubt that our effervescent and ethereal romping through blossomed fields is short-lived. It’s time to harken toward future needs, attentive to the dying light and the lighted, crimson skies of past. Fall is in the air, winter looms on the horizon. There is scant time to enjoy the dying light.