Indian-Summer Kiss

"There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood;

Touch of manner, hint of mood,

And my heart is like a rhyme

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time."

-Bliss Carman

There are so many beautiful things to love right now.

There are maples with veins so red you hold your breath, knowing that soon the red in the veins will spread to the body of the leaves and turn the treetops scarlet as Rahab's thread.

There is a bit of a moon hanging low and copper over the field across the way in the pre-dawn hours, when you stay up too late and ought to be in bed but step out on the porch instead just to look at the majesty for a moment.

There are nights and nights of open-window weather which is enough to set the soul right again. Very little can be all that bad when a dark and beautiful chill is seeping through the screens.

There is the smell of mown grass baking hay-sweet in the riot of hazy sunlight, the aroma rising up to fill your nose when you make the trek, barefoot, to the mailbox.

There are cookies--smacking and powerful and punching with the amount of fresh ginger baked into them--cooling on a rack in sugar-sparkling rows.

There are books on the most fascinating aspects of history sitting on the shelf waiting for the moment in the day when I lay aside everything else and take one with me to the porch.

There are lazy evenings at the county fair in the company of friends, everyone pretending, for this moment, that nothing has changed; that no one has moved on; that we are all children again with nothing to do but squash together on the bleachers and watch bull-riding in almost horrified fascination.

There are free photo-prints arranged in a happy cloud on the wall, summoning un-looked-for memories from the recesses of your brain.

There are dewdrops silvering the roses and kittens squirming wiggly-warm next to their mothers, and late-night Sherlock marathons in the itty-bitty house across the land.

There are cotton-candy-eating sessions and then high-from-cotton-candy sessions afterward where we are much less brilliant conversationalists than we like to think, and we collapse against the counter waiting for the chicken-wings to get out of the oven and then, having seen them safely through the inferno, go straight to bed without eating any.

There are phone-calls after phone-calls, setting the pace for the business as a merciful storm--so much abundance of provision in that respect that Saturdays are work-days.

There are hugs to be given, and back-rubs to receive and dusty country roads to drive with the windows down and the music up.

There is feed to buy, and goats to chase off the berry-bushes, and scuppernongs to pick and suck and eat with the sour-zing running up and down your jaw like a trapped tickle.

It's Indian Summer, y'all, and God is just so amazingly good to me.