Sunset over the harbor near our house, Saturday night. I kept hearing It is the evening of the day in my head as we walked down to the water, admired the boats, listened to the faint snapping of halyards against masts.
The second half of August is the evening of summer. Slowly, creakingly, we turn towards a new season, towards the fall which is, to me, undeniably about endings of things. I was born right at this fulcrum, and more and more I feel sure that contributes to my awareness of these shifts and to my propensity to tiptoe along the borders of things.
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