Three geese soared high above me, majestic-looking against the cerulean sky. Chicanery in motion, ostentatious cries proclaimed their journey started. Oh bilking beauties…
The leaves keep falling off the near-barren trees, unconcerned that I am not prepared for my migration from sunny street-side cafés to that fauteuil near the fireplace. I am not at peace with bare branches and silver skies and the early dark outside my window. I am not okay with the smell of rotting earth that will soon invade those damp nocturnal walks. I do not look forward to the chill that will claim and form its own government in my bones, eased only by frequent hot steamy baths.
Less and less pedestrians amble through these bustling summer streets and my neighbourhood will soon go to sleep. They also will migrate indoors and their windows will close with a thunk. I will no longer hear what I was never meant to and the pace of my walks will accelerate against the quickening drop in degrees of these autumnal evenings.
My neighbours will set free their flannelette pyjamas and down duvets from their moth-balled plastic storage sleeves. They will equip themselves with a new subscription to TV guide and fresh batteries for their remote controllers. They will line their cupboards with microwave popcorn and extra soda to save them that suddenly undesired trip. Others will embrace their hot cup of jasmine tea and that book that’s been sitting on the landing for weeks, waiting to be remembered.
I suspect I will do some (or all) of these things myself, but only while I mourn the death of yet another prairie summer.
PHOTO: P. Haywood
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