It Was Cold Now

It was cold now. The joy in the air that one thinks of when they hear, “Summer”, seemed to have gone away long ago. But it was not dead yet. And it would not die without first saying goodbye. It would sing a song, No, More of an Opera if you will. It was grand in its modesty. Loud and yet silent. The Crickets and the Cicadas and the Mighty Birds screamed, Refusing to depart without first making sure that they would be remembered. They surely would be. It was not only those creatures that made up this tune. It was also the light and the rocks and the way the light bounced off of the rocks and, well, many things. All those things that do not speak but that I hear nonetheless. Or perhaps, none of these things cried out to me. Perhaps I’ve gone mad. It may be that, Stones do not talk and Summer is not some Goddess reaching out to me, and only me, In a triumphantly serene moment. But it was pleasant either way.