The trough between summer and fall — neither the fish of hot weather nor the fowl of the first few cold snaps; just damp gray still days embroidered — just past dark, just before daylight — with the sound of crickets doing their best to sing out their hearts before colder weather calls them home.
The trough between summer and fall, and there are butterflies — adrift like flat sheets of origami paper, tossed out, art nouveau in their loveliness. As languid above the lantana as Edwardian beauties in Liberty print.
The trough between summer and fall and there are hummingbirds, hung for a moment like ornaments in the front yard apple tree —look! one just now — as if I summoned it up; that quick glimpse of majolica glaze brushstroked along back, the violence of each vulnerable ruby throat.
Younger, I chose spring and fall as my favorites, those seasons sandwiched between the attention-getting punctuation of summer and winter.
These days, I prefer most the thin marginalia — before spring, before fall. The hitch, the held breath before the true season begins its exhalation.