#230
The middle of August feels like a satin sheet under my body, my legs able to move back and forth, soft; a little too warm, in search of slow breezes to push away any insect.
The middle of August is slow, burgeoning with ripe fruit, melons so sweet, plums bursting with juice and the smell of herbs, a sniff of thyme and basil, tomato and mozzarella.
The middle of August begins the bittersweet feeling of the summer ending and life returning to a more mundane routine, of families doing their normal work, vacations over, late night sleepy talks in screened in porches forgone.
Time to leave the ball field and go inside for a bedtime story.
My day has been equivalent to a Hudson River painting or a French painting from about 1880.
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