It fades, Summer does. It does not leave in a rush or slip away overnight. It fades, its brilliance seeping into the ground, the sky, the air.
At first, it cedes the night, relenting in the early hours, allowing the world at last to breathe and with a cooling sigh to sleep, finally, sleep.
Then the evenings fade. The sun, now tired from its summer’s work, runs low across the sky and gently slides toward twilight, returning hours it once commanded back to moon and stars.
Today, the morning faded, too, as gentle fog hid the buildingtops and seagulls mewed above, unseen. The streets were mist, the sky a blanket, and every streetlamp was a halo-shrouded gem.
The afternoon now is Summer’s only realm, but not for long; its threats are all worn out, its bark now has no bite. Flanked on either side by dewy morning and the star-shot dusk, it has no time to muster strength and soon will leave the field. The gold of summer grass will green, the green of summer leaves will rust and blaze, and Autumn, soon, will come into her own.
Summer’s nearly done. It’s fading as we speak.
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Fifty followers. Fifty.
Up on a shelf, next to some old journals, I have a box filled with memories.
I’m worried about South Korea. No, not in that global, realpolitik way. I’m worried about South Koreans. I don’t think they’re happy.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 