Act one: cul-de-sac.
The world falls to summer’s spell
And hazy warmth permeates the air.
We pray for kindly Zephyr’s return.
Breathe in: cut grass and asphalt.
Breathe out and in again.
Distant jangling, a modern torture device: the ice cream song.
The smack of rubber on rubber: kickball season has started.
From the neighborhood pool:
MAAARCO! Polo. MAAARCO! – FISH OUT OF WATER!
Six-year-old balls of laughter roll down the steepest hill.
Weed-whackers and lawn mowers grumpily drone on.
Intermission: get washed up and eat dinner.
Smoke and barbeque overpower nature’s perfume.
Entr’acte: damp dusk.
Small and clumsy hands grasp clear pickling jars and punctured lids.
Shhh . . . don’t scare the lightning bugs.
Anxious eyes await the signal, watch for bioluminescence.
The trap is set and ready to spring.
Venus announces Apollo’s departure.
Pickling jars flicker against the coming night.
Toothy and toothless grins adorn their faces.
Again, again.
Tomorrow and the day after.
For every summer for ever.