Trading The Idea Of Summer For An Early Spring

It’s a picture perfect night.

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The sun set hours ago, but the brightness lingers at the horizon, a blue like aquamarine, yet sweeter. I follow the silhouette of the mountain range with my fingertips, and hope it rains again.

Soon.

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At the same time I think of clear nights, when the stars fade into focus, shifting and blurring in some worldly focal lens, coming out sharp. A needle lined up point first, aiming for home, my sphere of a planet. Aiming for me.

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These things coexist, I reason with myself. This is a comforting thought.

The lingering brightness gives edges to the clouds, ashen in the sky, and casts phantom shadows on the sidewalk. 

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I think of summer, the heat of a day in the evening breeze, because now it pretends to be warm in waking hours. I don’t know who the weather is lying to more, me or itself.

Trading the idea of summer for an early spring.

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It’s a picture perfect night, but even this too shall pass. Yet another sign on the freeway, luminous as the moon, and much more forgettable. If you keep driving, the words lose meaning.

Don’t miss your exit.