The Pretender has returned and the fishermen are off-loading the lobster. They had to go out far today, I’m told, and though I don’t know what that means exactly, I hold visions of rolling seas and high sun and salt in the air far from the mainland. I will need a fleece tonight, like I did this morning while walking Maggie. I can’t image this summer coming to an end.
I made pouched salmon steaks tonight with a butter sauce. The sauce needed a quarter of white wine, and of course the rest of the bottle, well, it couldn’t go to waste and the cook was thirsty and of course it is gone now and so the night rolls in and my coffee will soon be whisky and my cigar gone, but Ray LaMontagne will continue to sing in my ears regardless of the sunset, the cigar, the drink, the wine.
The ancients saw the end of summer as the end of life and the end of everything alive above the earth; they saw youthful maidens adorning themselves with wings and preparing to fly off, leaving, them, us, behind. So, tonight, the maidens are across the water and if I squint and look directly I can see them checking their harnesses and getting ready to flee. Wait!–not yet. You are not to go just this soon. Stay a while, please. Please.