Prodigal Summer

The other night, whilst we looked at the stars, and felt a rare cooling breeze, and experienced the purple black velvet of night, and also the Edison yellow of the porchlight, and listened to the mellow and lively strings of John's guitar, a luminescent Luna Moth flew over our heads, with a definite determined lean to his flight, and seemingly on purpose, catching the light just right.

I cannot find out who designed the gorgeous endpapers to the wonderful book Prodigal Summer, by Barbara Kingsolver. The Moths remind me of my childhood, and all the varieties seen and hoped to be seen, from a little book of butterflies and moths, beautifully hand illustrated that sat on the coffee table of our livingroom growing up. What a rare treat to see some of these. So thrilled and privileged I feel when I hear a rustle and a tap on the window at night, to find some rare ephemeral beauty looking in at me... often oddly and startling large, their visits unique brief and singular, thus sometimes defying identification, fluttering for a few moments, and then away to other adventures.

I am okay with Fall's arrival. For once, I can hope and embrace it without loss for Summer. Perhaps because I know now, in my bones, though fewer will be granted me than before, that Summer will indeed come again. It is seemingly eternal, if not everlasting.

So I wave goodbye, to Summer, as if on the platform, knowing the timetables and that it's return will come even quicker than it did this year.