The temperature is about seventy degrees, a light wind blows, and there is nary a cloud in the sky. Finally, the perfection that is the Pacific Northwest summer has arrived. Only this year, Mother Nature is a little off in her timing. Instead of looking forward to two months of glorious weather--our "get outside and stay there" weather--the calendar on the wall features a flame-orange maple tree and I know that the rains of autumn are soon arriving. Instead of reading on the porch tonight until 10 p.m., the sun will set at 7:36 p.m. (This according to The Original Farmer's Almanac.)
Our season of cocooning has already begun. We're watching more movies, reading more books, and staying in the house. Our Netflix queue is becoming an important topic of discussion. We're planning Thanksgiving already, for godssake.
But not today. Today, we'll squeeze the sun as hard as we can. We'll pour it over ourselves, and feel it soak into our skin. We'll hold onto it tight, and turn it into a memory.
Because this glorious sunshine week is likely the last we'll have until next summer. And that seems like a very long way off.
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