Waning Days of Summer

 School started yesterday and the elementary school behind our house was finally populated with playing children.  It was fun to watch them tossing red rubber balls into the sycamore tree just over the fence.  They darted across the grassy playing field where we run our dogs, and it made me think how good it is that we are (all) diligent about picking up our dogs' messes.

Last evening we went to the Farmer's Market. On Wednesday nights through October the market is even more festive with a live band, food booths and wine and beer.  We were lucky to catch a great local band, Yolo Mambo, who played a variety of styles from Celtic to Brazilian to jazz. 

Monsieur took many photos of the band, and chatted them up, as is his way.  He bought a couple of CDs and I had to laugh --  if you only knew how many moving boxes of CDs he gave away and sold over the last few months.  This man has an iTunes library of over 40,000 songs, I kid you not.

I think he likes music.

I enjoyed the children at Central Park very much and of course wished my grandson were there.  They loved the music, and generally running around with their abundant kid energy.

The girl in the purple skirt was twirling and twirling - this is just one shot.  She was ecstatic.

Davis is quite the family oriented town.  This event had pony rides, jumping tents, all kinds of activities for the kiddies.  There were many young families, all fresh and new with their babies, their swollen bellies, their sturdy toddlers and effervescent pre-schoolers.

People were in the mood for good food, music and meeting up with friends.  We ran into Joe and Linda from the dog park.  Looking all cleaned up.

A satisfying day to be sure.  Children, music, food, fruit so ripe it scents the air under the market tent.  Spicy chicken curry and paneer over rice and avocado/coconut ice cream for dessert.

Sigh.

The Last Days of Summer Before the First Frost           By Tim Bowling

 

Here at the wolf’s throat, at the egress of the howl,

all along the avenue of deer-blink and salmon-kick

where the spider lets its microphone down

into the cave of the blackberry bush—earth echo,

absence of the human voice—wait here

with a bee on your wrist and a fly on your cheek,

the tiny sun and tiny eclipse.

It is time to be grateful for the breath

of what you could crush without thought,

a moth, a child’s love, your own life.

There might never be another chance.

How did you find me, the astonished mother says

to her four-year-old boy who’d disappeared

in the crowds at the music festival.

I followed my heart, he shrugs,

so matter-of-fact you might not see

behind his words

(o hover and feed, but not too long)

the bee trails turning to ice as they’re flown.