As with all things that arrive early, they start a pattern that nothing is able to change.
Summer was early, starting with wildfires and quickly pressing on into a storm year. Once every four or so years the storms come to the prairie forged from the destructive fire of humanity’s insatiable appetite that destroyed the Boreal of the area, filling the dusty basin until the wildfire epidemic is doused.
The temperatures have barely let up since May, but in the same way summer started out the gate before the gun had gone, now already harvest has begun. Apples falling, small but ripe from the trees; garden yields pushing on to the last stages; and even, the leaves on the first turning trees have tired, yellowed and begun their headlong plummet. The wind has shifted, ever so subtly, and we, being of the north, welcome the crispness like a well travelled friend returning to the hearth of our hearts.
The light has begun to fade off, setting a little sharper, a little earlier. The rustle of the leaves had a very distinct sound in late summer, and it has begun very early this year.
We can feel winter waiting, wild eyed, just beyond sight. She is always so hungry. I am always so keen to take her on.