Summer’s endgame. The water in the bog is low again soon after even the most intense rain storm. Plumes and seeds are popping and waving like mad. Red and brown increase against green — intimations of what is to come. The sharp peppery smell of late summer that nearly makes me cry with nostalgia every time it greets me. Black, not jalapeño. I have no idea what causes it, perhaps one of those plumes laden with seeds swaying everywhere. Or even the flowers of one of the late bloomers trying to get its job done quickly.

But it ain’t over yet. Relieved that the latest attack of heat and humidity is passed, woman and hound step into a sunlight made brighter by the lower angle, not quite yet needing or wanting to soak up warmth. Canada in Plainfield is more Canada than Plainfield when the days are bright, the air fresh, and the sun slants low.

It’s where I am in life I think. Still hurrying to get things done, but there are intimations of seed-making, of wanting to bask in the sun. This time and the season that follows are full of promise when everything is getting ready for the next growing season. It behooves me to draw the parallel.