On this humid August day, the earth on a whim, draws her bath and the steam rises to the tops of buildings.

The tub is full as meadows flood and the leaves await a new season’s future.

The air is grey cotton.

The lush, black Turkish towels are trees bending strong and wet amid the flash of the earth’s mawkish and toothy grin…

Notes on gravity and all things science…or not. When at the end of an arduous day, there is a bench in the hotel foyer which looks as if it is meant to be sat on…and under the end corner, where the padded section of the bench lies, there is actually only air…and one is quite tired, spent really…and one sits down on padded air…suddenly! Wham!

Hitting the floor with panache…

The owner or manager comes running speedily around the corner. The desk clerk comes running from behind the counter. A guest with a large and curious dog comes running from the breakfast room. A couple entering the hotel at that very moment note that I am seated on the floor waiting to greet them.

The owner helps me up. The desk clerk, guest with large and curious dog and the newly greeted additional guests disappear fairly swiftly and quietly.

I’m fine. I’m fine. Now, I am going swimming…

Our Blue Moon is exhausted from exertion; shining brilliantly last night over darkened trees, sleeping houses and cooling land. She settles slowly way off somewhere behind the forest on a quiet Thursday dawn as she winks and nods a greeting to the new month. Morning yawns cautiously in reply. The moon and the dawn find themselves together on the down side of nothing.

This nothing day is not a day without purpose, but a time where the mind’s eye, rested and cleansed looks outward; far, far ahead to see the horizon uncluttered with tightly drawn squares, check marks, detailed lines of faces all demanding that something happen. On August the first, the day after the Blue Moon, nothing must happen. There is brewing coffee and porch lingering to enjoy while listening to energized neighbors discuss methods of pulling rocks out of the front and side yard; a few vicious sneezes, and then silence.

Wherever those people linger who demand that we ‘do’, may hover elsewhere for just a bit longer because our summer is not yet spent. The season turns just a touch more with that inevitable twisting down toward cooling ground, longer evenings and lengthening shadows.

In June we tossed aside notebooks, envisioning endless sand, puffy clouds, watermelon ice and corn dogs; this time it would last forever. But July always comes to an end. So soon, too soon Earth’s yellow orb cowers under the Blue Moon’s gaze and she blinks first and so soon must we. But not today. Not yet.

August’s first early dawn settles, just a touch reserved; waiting as the white curtains in the reading room billow and flap wildly, and over this rocky terrain we call home, wind chimes blow continually at the edge of this house on the hill. He labors with the land by 6:30 morning time; weeding and seeding and by mid day I shall take him cold, iced lemon water because all seasons require kindness.