Blue sky and sun.
It gets dark earlier and gets light later these days, noticeably. We take for granted the sun coming up and the sun going down - so much so that we don't pay much attention. Well, the time of sunrise and sunset is a good measure of our days, dare I say the measure of the size of our joy and amazement? The dark greyness of winter is a flatness I don't look forward to necessarily; though I do embrace it about as tightly as anyone embraces it, I guess. We're promised another tough winter by the Farmers' Almanac people. Gird yourself.
It's August, and I'm thinking about winter.
Now I'm headed north out of Fairwater. Both lanes here have been resurfaced. The shoulders still need work. A red-tail hawk on a power pole half a mile north of the village, great and bright-eyed. The hawk tree and the other trees that are gone underline our disconnect from the land. Those trees provided shade for lunch and rest breaks in an earlier world - a place for men and horses to get out of the hard sun. A big air-conditioned rig, out in the field? The farmer today has no need for shade. How long can we get away with thumbing our collective nose at the universe?