Mid summer, in the heart of buttery sunshine…watching a neighbor teach his small son to ride a bike while knowing that the bee on the porch will not sting. The fat striped insect is drunk with sun and pollen and July air. He weaves and wobbles around the flowers, buzzing half heartedly.
I hear from the street, ‘Drift and hit the pedals, drift and hit the pedals…wrong driveway!’ The voices fade…
Who is wobbling? The bee? The child? Me?…
Next day…waking to the mournful sounds of geese coasting overhead. Overcast, grey…the mid-summer rains in the latter days of July are gentle and wisping. In these climes, in our northern land at the edge of the lake, winter keeps her finger on the pulse of summer.
Today she leans in with some stirring, a yawn…an eyelash flickers as she watches geese and fat bumblebees flitting and flying…disappearing over soaked ground, heading toward loaded raspberry bushes and the winds of August…
690 Saint Paul 