August 2022

There’s a light fog more of a haze, really — lying across the lower hay field this morning down where Johnson Creek runs into the Tomahawk. I’ve seen yellow leaves being blown by the breeze under the high green canopy in the old woodlot across from the hunting cabin. The hay is already needing a second cutting. The deep blue of the rain-cleaned sky and the puffy whiteness of the lingering clouds seem out of place — more like late September than the last few days of August, if you know what I mean. Maybe the extreme dryness and intense heat of the early summer caused the regular timing to shift, or maybe it’s just a fluke. But it sure seems like autumn is quite a bit closer than it should be. I love autumn. The sights, the smells, the brisk freshness of the morning air have always made me feel more alive, more at home, especially here in the holler. Usually, one has to wait until late September or even early October to get a sense of the changing of the seasons. This year seems to be different.