Summer is a fleeting privilege. Each one the same, each different. This is the 75 summer of my life.
I grew up on the Texas coast, as a child, and into adulthood, summers were filled with beach parties, wiener roasts, roasted marshmallows, and watermelon. Charging into the waves, to be knocked down, get up and charge again. The way the sand felt under foot, as the waves returned to the sea. The cry of the seagulls as they dived for food. Collecting shells on the shore. Any day was a good day for a picnic.
Now, I live in the high mountain desert of New Mexico, ancient old, land of enchantment. Summers are mostly cool, and the nights cooler. Seagulls are replaced by the rowdy magpies, who scream and quarrel while sitting on fence posts or dive bomb into the sagebrush while playing tag. There are no beaches to roam, no shells to collect. Instead, we collect the biggest blue skies and the most incredible sunsets, that could break your heart. I am in love with the land, and after all, when a summer has come and gone, it will not return again in just the same way, next summer will be different.
My view stretches all the way to the horizon
Or is stopped by the mountains
Each day torn from the big book of magic