Counting Down the Days

June 24: An Equilibrium

And now, an update on the weather:
Midsummer has passed, meaning the height of summer has, in fact, just begun. The fresh, exciting taste of early summer has passed, transitioning into something more stately and mature. The trees are a deep, melodious green, and the raspberries are hard grayish nubs. The grass is mostly crunchy under your feet, interspersed with patches that are lusciously soft and delightful to walk on. The leaves on the grape vines are at their peak: delicate and soft and perfect for cooking. Just last Sunday we picked them under the glaring sun, put them in a colander, and rolled them, still warm, around a meat and rice stuffing.
today it is surprisingly cool—a cloudy, breezy 82 degrees. But don't let that fool you; recent days have been blazing hot and glaring. Air conditioning units have been placed in all the appropriate, windows, any gaps plugged up with tape and towels and plastic bags. It has not rained properly for weeks, the sky only grumbling and muttering ominously. The fact that I am sitting comfortably outside as I write this is frankly a surprise.
Rain or shine, hot or cold, there are always birds. Mostly they are sparrows—chattering in their own, slightly snide way—but there are also goldfinches and robins and chickadees. There are starlings and cardinals and swallows. There are hawks and vultures and blue herons. There are even hummingbirds—so quick and twitchy and yet possessing an air of assurance and calm.
This new equilibrium will go on for another month or so. Though the raspberries will grow swollen and red, most everything else will remain unchanged. But every day the sun's harsh yellow will grow a little more golden, and every night will have a little more chill. The cicadas will grow louder with each passing afternoon. The new era that is August will set in.
But we needn't worry about that for now.