Ah, the blessed relief that is the ideal summer day, the kind that warrants no loud buzz of artificial cooling or the annoying whir of fans, and that allows nature's sounds in. Gone, for the time being anyway, is the mirror-clouding haze of humidity, the dampening of sound, the slowing of the senses. In its place, a masterpiece of a day, in which all is clearly defined and unmistakable in its purpose...each leaf delineated against the ones beneath, below and above it...each bird song a top-forties-chart-worthy melody...the pond a blue that not even the sky could aspire to.
A wind hums in the trees as I write, providing the melody into which the distant sound of a lawnmower cannot intrude, with my wind-chimes adding their own melodious notes. Nature has arbitrarily decreed this day perfect, and who am I to argue? This is clearly a time to rejoice, if only within my own sphere of experience, in the tiny innocuous niche that I occupy.
This rejuvenation that comes out of the west via the ever-moving air masses imbues all that it touches, my own spirit included, with a new vibrancy, and reawakens my instinctive curiosity. I spy new depths among the greenery, new shapes which were hidden to me before, see new hues among the sun-drenched petunias, screen all of my sensory impressions like a 49'er to get at the jagged gleaming bits.
This is a day made for writers, for those processors of words who can take something like this and make others see without needing to utter the words "oh look!"
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