It's a clash of seasons, backpacks dominating when swimsuits are clearly needed. I should feel sorry for the youth marching off to the vaults of learning, the heavy iron door clanging shut behind them as they gather around one grimy window in the corner of the room, watching ghosts of summer drift across the playground. I should feel sorry for them, but the sudden stillness is exquisite.
When the mercury flirts with 30 at this time of year, at this alignment of earth and sun, here in the high-plains desert, it does so for an hour, two hours, before scrambling back down to nighttime chill. The daily rise and fall of mercury is ... mercurial. I can happily accept two hours of +30 when I need a sweater each night.
Even the wasps who join us for our daily al fresco meal seem to be merely reminding us of their status. Their dives at the meat are cursory, lacking in intent and malice. We have a shaky truce with the striped hordes.
All too soon, the summer blossoms will shed their remaining bruised petals, the daily handfuls of ripe cherry tomatoes will be gone from the single triumphant plant that towers over the flower bed, the rain of yellow leaves will begin in earnest. But for now, I am grateful for the confusion of seasons.