I shuffled through yellow leaves today. The cottonwoods are losing their broad, serrated yellow leaves, and the paths smell of autumn.
I found edible blackberries today, a month after they started ripening. I thought they were done, but now, at the right season of summer's end, there are still a few, sweet berries hiding in the places where few people go. Comparatively - this *is* the city.
Yesterday, it was 93 degrees at 5 pm. Today, i wore a coat. It was about 70F. The sky, bright with sun yesterday, was clouded, hazy and smelled of wildfire smoke. We went to the field instead of the dog park. On a Saturday night, no one is playing rugby, and I wanted to be able to breathe. The dust in the dog park is horrible and needs the rains to settle. I'm not sure I can wait.
My summer started two weeks ago when Dottie and I first went kayaking. It's been a cold summer, and I didn't want to risk her tipping the kayak until the lake was warm. In past summers, I've started swimming in May and took my last, stolen, lovely swim on a sunny day in October. Somehow the water is less cold if the sun is out. This summer, I am less brave, and have only gone swimming once.
I'm not strong any more. I make no progress, and swim in place, the kayak attached to me by a dog leash, while my Not-Lab stands on the boat and watches me glory in the wet. She thinks I'm nuts, but I do provide kibble and an occasional piece of grilled salmon skin. She waits.
I no longer write poetry. I do not call myself a writer now. But sometimes, when the leaves smell that woodsy, sweet dry smell, and the memory of the lake is still fresh on my skin; sometimes, when I haven't worn more than shorts and a tank top in days, because the heat is making memories for the rainy months; sometimes, I still put words together to please myself. Can one be a poet without being a writer? Perhaps. Sometimes.
