Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.
July is a blind date with summer.
Sundial of the Seasons
1Without birds, where would we have learned that there can be song in the heart?
Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable. The hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
July is hot afternoons and sultry nights and mornings when its joy just to be alive.
