lazy days
There’s something about time and summer. I never felt it before I was 19 years old, the first year I lived in a place where seasons shifted seismically, the changes they wrought so great it was like sitting still while great tectonic plates moved under you. Change is everywhere now: in the air, the smells, the feel of the world. In how time passes.
Only summer is lazy. Spring is busy, has work it needs to finish before the day is done; winter is swift, like the descent of an guillotine. Fall moves slow, but you can’t call fall lazy; fall is regal in its gait. Summer is the only one that lingers like a kid who won’t go when you tell him to. Summer is for feet that lean against each other, instead of walking.
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