A few thoughts as the Canicule begins and the cicadas stir: it has been a summer like those eight and nine years ago, bright and hot with few interruptions from the cold or wet of thunderstorms. Too bad for the bluegrass, and maybe a presage for a spiritless winter. But if he looks upward, the photographer shouldn't complain.
However little I may care for daily troughs and entanglements, a sky snarled by rising clouds is as moving as a clear, blue one.
Worlds could hide in there.
Said the gardener: "Aren't they gorgeous? I can't believe I planted them."
Which I answered, silently: Yes, and No, but I can.
Next in the series of exceptions: sunsets, daily seen and rarely photographed.
They were the florets I pass by.
This time, I paused first.
Sunny skies lift any moment, but the time of day and day of the week that stay auspicious even in January darkness are six o'clock or thereabouts on a Friday evening.
So much to accomplish. Is there something to do? — yes, always.
Even it weren't to deposit a check, making peripatetic use of the drive-through ATM, the little jaunt from my office to the bank amounts to my favorite quarter-hour on a Thursday evening.
My maternal grandfather's ninetieth birthday was celebrated in a park at the edge of suburban Kalamazoo.
This is one of several images with which I broadly associate my memories of summer.
A thought process: a) this thunderstorm is terrifying, so b) I am going to stand on my balcony and photograph it.
