Spring has ebbed now, lingering only in the unexpectedness of a blossoming tree amongst green, and in the tang of morning cold when I hang the laundry out. The long, dry, overheated summer has opened, and is settling itself over the plains and the waters. Soon my soul's songlines will have burrowed underground, into dark and silence, and I will be watching dry-eyed for any rain. But it won't come, and it won't come, and when it finally does I'll be so deep in need for it that I'll flood.
The sky thickened last evening, becoming brown and gold and so dark, with a growl of thunder, that I thought a storm was inevitable. But it did not come. I kept waking through the night and listening - but it did not come. And so begins the weary monotone of summer. Already, several plants in my garden have become twigs, beyond replenishing. Already, I squint when I open the curtains in the morning.
When there is no refreshment, no rich and subtle shadow, there is still at least the shelter of books, stories, wild essays and poems. The likes of Robert MacFarlane, Sylvia Linsteadt, John O'Donohue, Rima Staines and Tom Hirons, Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Patricia McKillip, Ursula le Guin, Sharon Blackie ... their words are a wild place, a retreat from the blistered season.
Soundtrack for this post.