Summer

There is a place I know, a hilltop kept in great open fields, that feels like the top of the world. Not in terms of height, for it’s not much in elevation, but in the openness of the land, the completeness of the sky above. In Massachusetts, everything is bordered, by trees, mostly, by roads, and houses, and ocean.

This place, even with the boundaries of trees in the distance, feels boundless. You could lie in the grass for an entire day and watch the dragonflies and the swallows; you could stay through the night and watch the stars rise and fade. You would feel not the passage of time, but the great lazy loops of it, round and round.

This time of year, summer, is like that. There’s the sense that time moves not relentlessly forward, but in a circle of day and night. The only thing to tell you otherwise is the way, even now, that the light changes, the sun not making it over the pines in quite the same way. It is, I think, something only adults look for, and only because we are not wise enough to stay in the moment, instead always looking ahead to winter.

Advertisements

Comments are disabled.

%d bloggers like this: