August announces her arrival in the valley with a banner of fog that blocks the early morning sun and sends me scrambling for socks to cover my tanned feet.
As I watch the fog burn off, I see August for what she is.
August lacks May’s elegance, June’s optimism, July’s bravado, December’s wonder, and February’s fury. Her pallet is made from September and October’s drippings and July’s bacchanalian waste.
August resents us and gives us her worst: tepid heat waves, mild feelings of regret and back-to-school sales. We named her after a man and not a god for good reason.
August bullies like an annoying little sister.
So, August, I’m calling you out: You’re the ass-end of the summer, a resentful wench who delights in reminding us of how much we haven’t yet done as she robs us of the daylight we need to do it all.
You may have the celestial opera on your side, but I will not go quietly into your mild nights. I will use you as I see fit and when I’m done, I’ll welcome September with genuine warmth and open arms and not regret August’s end one bit.
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