The ninth month

It’s the last evening of August, it’s dark and I’m outside writing by the light of the computer screen.

A warm hurried wind is troubling the trees that almost hide the not-yet-ready-to-be full moon.

Across the valley Jupiter burns brightly, a near orange beacon in the south.

Crickets buzz, beetles drone and the wind hurries on.

Tomorrow, today now, is September and this warm impatient wind probably means rain, at least a storm, to break the warm drowsiness of the summer that no one wants to finish but which we all know already has.