Here, in the near-dead of winter, I think about summer.
Summer sounds like the scrape-crack of a screen door, then the bark of a dog somewhere, followed by the thump-thump-thump of the a kid somewhere in the neighborhood chasing a basketball that rattled the rim but failed to drop.
I climb on a bike and ride, and I pass through a very demarcated geography of smells:
Charcoals, BBQ, pockets of cold air.
I arrive back home, and think about laying out on the grass and looking up. The grass is wet with dew. The view of the stars obstructed by leaves overhead. The elements are in my favor this time of year, and I file away as much as I can for the dead of winter when I’m standing in two feet of snow, and the thought of laying out in the dark is crazy.
