Those final summer days, insistent on making their appearance at the beginning of Fall; the September tug-of-war weather.
Cold enough to turn the heater on in the morning, letting the A/C run its shift in the late afternoon heat.
Letting the dog out, she snorts, sniffs, and bristles at the last of the spring rabbits grown to adults as August recedes, September steps to the forefront.
We step back into the shadowed coolness of the darkened den.
The windows, with blinds drawn, lights out, no television flashing blue light, dim into the recesses of our thoughts.
We, the dog and I, ponder the final verses of songs the cicada sing, mullberry bushes, picked clean; the jam made in sun-dappled kitchens, waiting for the lids of the jars to ping, the last of the refrigerator pickles, the decision to switch from beer to bourbon as the air crisps; and, the rabbits we don’t see.