Just Write: Prelude to autumn

The air swells, only slightly, with the last remains of mild Northwest humidity, and streams across my face as I bike home beneath partly cloudy skies.  I can feel the back of my shirt clinging wet, my backpack pressed tightly against cotton and skin.  And I glide downhill.  Traces of sun filter through Colman Park trees, hidden, it seems, between Thirty-First Street above and Lake Washington Boulevard below.  We lean into the corners, my Univega and I, and tires crackle through a dusting of leaves on the winding road.

A prelude to autumn.

photo credit

Up the street from us, a family of sunflowers double over, resting wilted heads along the black link fence.  Several weeks ago, they stood firm and upright, full petals encircling their faces like a lion's golden mane, tipped toward the sun.  Their season has come and gone, and this fills me with a familiar, wordless ache.   I stop and study them, and they are as a mirror to my soul.

I dine alone on my yoga mat against the wall, cradling my bowl, and stare out at the smoldering sky as it turns another page of time.  The living room is dark, but for the glow of porchlights from the balcony kitty corner our apartment and the sun’s final word on the day.  My eyes are mesmerized by sky, a tangerine flame bursting in a sea of smoke.  A five-minute display of light and rapid fade to gray. 

All is dark, awash in stillness.  Near the window, the outline of handlebars and bicycle frame stare back at me inside the apartment. 

And summer nights slip away with the sun.

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It's been awhile, but I'm joining up with Just Write today over at Heather's place.