(I went to Elkhorn flea market today and all I got was this awesome pair of mortally wounded china ladies. Ok. That’s obviously a lie. I was treated to a tummy full of steak and cast iron shoe lasts by Maryanna, and a gift from pal Angela, in honor of nothing in particular except that her eye is always in the right place at the right time.)
Despite a lingering morning chill, something like summer has sunk its teeth into the air, creeping like a farm cat toward imaginary prey. The corn is already knee high, and anything that can be green, is. It doesn’t matter how many virtues you can name for crunching leaves, or drifting snow; summer needs no tally of seasonal pros and cons. We sit outside without justification, delighting flagrantly in our lack of ambition, never wondering where our coats are, because we didn’t need one. And like all humans since the Flintstones roamed the earth, we abjure such incantations as “It’s too hot,” or “I like winter,” for fear of offending the gentle breeze, and scaring it away with our ingratitude.