Last night there came the slenderest sharp edge to the wind. This morning it's still here, held in the corners of the house and the vacancies below the squash leaves. Our poor eggplant, which struggled so valiantly over the summer, will die a virgin.
We have a full four seasons here, and when one reigns, it reigns supreme. Until all has only ever been that one season. Before yesterday evening, it had always been summer. Now comes a thread of doubt, and one remembers that when the seasons change, they change quickly. Memories surface of hard winters banished by verdant springs within a single weekend. A rumor, carried on the wind, claims that summer, too, will end. That whites, and duns, and dust-darkened greens will be succeeded by golden light under a hard blue sky. That the plants will burn and the wooly smoke will gather and gather until suddenly we are smothered by winter.
In January, friends, remind me of light and heat, and how in tropical places the bugs really are too big to bear.