You don’t know August in the backseat of June, in the front one of July. You can’t see it closing in. Shark eyed and windless. But it’s coming, August. A month of diluted caresses that thunder memories the way glades of grass chopped in their prime will do. Scented thusly, the succumbing begins. No soft explosion, no bursting in air, the last days of whatever come and present themselves. Me, I had a job selling corn out of the back of someone else’s pick up truck on the side of the road near the JFX, and the sound of automobiles rushing in the turns of the highway lulled me into believing September had as much to say as July.
by Hank Cherry
