August never lingers the way November does or January.
All through August my comments are the same, incredulous and faintly resentful:
I can’t believe summer is almost over. Soon the children will be back at school. The withered leaves will fall. It will be dark by 5 pm, and barely light when next morning comes.
August never lingers but instead strolls dreamily along in an absent-minded way,
ignoring my puerile laments about summer’s too swift passage that change nothing and influence no one.
Not the birds following their own imperative calendars,
nor the weary butterflies fluttering their tattered wings,
nor the hoarse-throated frogs already planning their winter retreats.
