Even now, I don't quite believe in summer. I haven't yet learned to trust these seasons; I was sure this year that spring would never come. Now, of course, I struggle to envision this land beneath its winter snow, to picture the bright trees barebranched, the pond a solid block. But I also don't trust the sun to stay and keep its promises, to bring all these fruits to ripening, to warm our souls enough to last through the winter.

But the green is overbearing now. Some part of me longs for the sere yellow hills of home, though they be ashen now, or the long hot vista of a creosote flat. I long for autumn, and fear it, and fear the winter, these brash seasons with no sense of moderation. I feel sodden, overwhelmed: won't it dry out, a little? Slow down? Isn't it time for a rest?