The death of summer

The death of summer comes quickly and loudly. Birds chatter, screaming to one another, let’s leave this place. Insects buzzing disappear, leaving their silent space behind. The crack of a tree limb, the drop of an acorn, the sound of breath hitting cold air and creating a puff of steam: the sounds of passing summer.

The color of the morning changes in a day. From bright yellow beams, cross-crossing through leaves across the yard, the light no longer radiates heat, but instead pours its white-light over everything equally, like a florescent bulb from heaven illuminating everything in the same, blinding grey shroud. The grass is green, but worn. The flowers are colorful, but surrounded by dead siblings withering one by one.

Streets once lined in yellow pollen powder carry parallel lines of brown leaves and brush, dead after a mere season of life. Overnight, joggers forsake earbuds for earmuffs, shorts become pants, and hands are covered with sleeves, while mental notes are made to buy a new pair of mittens.

No more stagnant air, quiet with summer stillness—leaves blow and shake, a raucous welcome to the death of a brother.


Author: Claire

Hi I'm Claire. I am a freelance writer, Vizlsa lover, and avid runner who lives in Nashville, TN. Nice to meet you.

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