It’s hot and humid today. For the North Country, anyway. There is a haze on the horizon and everything just feels sticky and icky. Even the birds and insects seem to see this, as they lazily flit from here to there, with no particular thought of where to go in mind. Birds in winter are far more decisive, that’s for sure. Heck, I’m far more decisive when it’s -20 outside, too. Today, I’m almost feeling the need to grab my book du jour, find a nice shady spot under a tree, and just spend the day there. Note the use of the word “almost”. That might need a bit of explanation…
Mid August is a peculiar time here in the North Country. It’s technically still Summer; it’s hot, humid, and hazy, which for most people would give a sense of security in the continuation of Summer. Here, we are not nearly as secure, because we know it can go in the opposite direction at any moment. Today might be hot and humid, and tomorrow, we might have the first frost of the season. This gives us all a certain amount of lazy urgency…despite the lazy feel, we know that something ominous is looming on the horizon, in the form of cold and snow. Which brings me back to my desire of wanting that shady tree…I know it could be one of the last times I am able to do that this season which gives my feelings of summer ease a mingling of exigency. If I don’t take advantage now, the next time I’m able to do it, I might have to do it in an igloo under that tree. In other words, the frozen tundra of the North Country isn’t far in the future, and every resident, whether human or animal, is quite aware of that fact. The fact you can feel it coming doesn’t help. Yes, it’s hot-ish and humid, but there is a difference in how it feels. Even the trees seem aware of this, as they noticeably begin to change their adornments to colours more in tune with the coming season. And this makes me a bit melancholy. Which makes me feel a bit poetical. Which brings me to why I’m posting to begin with. I found a lovely poem by Emily Dickenson which summed my feelings up quite succinctly, and I wanted to share that with my readers…yes, all three of you! 😉 I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

As Summer into Autumn slips
by Emily Dickinson

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
“The Summer” than “the Autumn,” lest
We turn the sun away,

And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved —

So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life’s Declivity.