The summer opened early with an Easter walk, a high-surveying bald eagle, and a snake lying inert but wakeful in a wooded path. We took a road trip through New Mexico and the Arizona desert, bursting with the anticipation of clean air, real silence, and wide open landscape. Up through Nevada, in Vegas with AK, on vacation from vacation in Lake Tahoe, across to the Redwoods, up the Oregon Coast, then connecting again Portland to Seattle to the Northwest's Olympic Peninsula, we rode in a friendly dark green Ford we called just Taurus.
Berlin was full of storms and strange winds, the climate shift seeming to be at hand.
We escaped for a dream in the Baltic Sea. That was August. The dream and its after. Its after going by not too quickly but without the enwrapping sea air potion. We decided to move in together. The romance of moving shelves, daily toast, wine and familiar news anchors, metaphors and nicknames now with long histories and permutations.
I have an odd sense of being back on the Earth, looking at colors, opening up human situations like new forgotten worlds. There is a lot of work to be done, these next few months. Friends and I rediscover each other through a different thickness. The feeling of being in life, less a bird or a critic.
It's September already. We'll sneak this one in under a lie ("31"), just to say that August this year was not forgotten. It was a twisting ride through gentle hill country, the road itself more dramatic in its angles than the actual land covered or the substantial yet well-paced progress of the journey. Already it is fall. A beautiful summer, one must say, has put up its gently flaming wall behind us.