why would we play?

I've been on this damned computer most of this rainy Sunday.

I miss this about Maine:

In mid-August, you could always sense the summer coming to a close. You were so in touch with the land, the air, the pitch and strength of the sun, the flora and fauna. No one had to tell you when it was, you knew it like you know to blink or draw in breath, it was mid-August. The sun was going down a tad ealier. The nights, they were a bit cooler. The fields were turning a golden yellow from their previous lush green, the stalks tall and the whole world was dry and sweet smelling.

The apple tree on the hill was baring fruit: sour, small globes. The cat tails are fat now, perched atop slender green towers. The corn is high, the tomatoes ripe.

The car is always hot with trapped sun. The road is liquid and the horizon distorded.

The clouds are a billowing up into the stratosphere in the day. You lay out at night and see every star that could, you believe, ever exist. You could never count them all, though, every night, you try.

The forest is thick and dark green. The maples have leaves bigger than your hands. The pines are coneing and smell of ptich, which gets all over your hands.

During supper your father is content, eating boiled corn at the end of the table, his back to the picture window. The sun, you notice, is turning the line of pines accross the street a strange, but beautiful orange. You know that this will happen earlier each night, the pine tree's tall spires will turning like the maples and oaks.

Soon summer is over.