Summer came back to near Babb last week.  We went tubing, and we didn’t get cold.  We walked up to our warehouse construction site after dinner, in our shirt sleeves, and we didn’t get cold.  We had coffee in the adirondack chairs under a morning, peacock blue sky, and we didn’t get cold.

But when I woke up on Friday, the sky was tilted at just the right angle to turn the peacock to cornflower, and the air carried the faintest whiff of pigskin and moose hide and freshly sharpened pencils.  Fall is just around the corner, and though I love the depths of its autumnal tones, the haunting cry of elk bugling at dusk, and the way the stars begin to turn backwards on themselves, I am not ready to let go of summer, not yet.  Summer, with its endless visitors bringing news of the outside world, their new engagement rings and babies, their gifts of stone ground grits and conversation; summer, with its saucepans overflowing with squash and onions, glistening green peas, and peaches cooked down to sublimity with Frangelico, cinnamon, and nutmeg; summer, with its windows open, banging gently in the warm breeze.

Stay with us just a little longer.

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