September Skies

                  The last ray of sunshine illuminates a railroad crossing arm.


Last night I went for a walk. There were storm clouds massing overhead, but the sunset was still pushing through every opening in the cloud cover it could find. Consequently, the urban farm down the street was enveloped in shadowed twilight, while the factory across the street was lit dramatically, looking like a shining city of legend.

It has been a dry September, despite the clouds that have regularly gathered. There have been spectacular sunsets due to both the clouds and smoke haze in the atmosphere from the fires out west. One Sunday a few weeks ago, our skies took on a greenish tinge and a strange opacity  despite weather instruments reading “mostly sunny”. I couldn’t help but think how frightening it must be in places closer to the flames.

Last September was the opposite – so wet that this week in 2016 we were on flood watch, followed by the evacuation of parts of town at the end of the month (including my neighborhood). A Herculean effort by residents and city workers prevented a massive disaster, though my apartment has never quite returned to its pre-evacuation state. (Due to my lack of initiative, not to any flooding – the place remained dry throughout!)

I’ve been thinking about the ways this September mirrors so many other Septembers in my life. Always, after the rush of August, I look toward September with a hopefulness that is rarely born out – I think September will usher in a slower pace, an expanse of time to enjoy a brief pause between late summer and the start of fall. But it never works that way. September is always a frantic blur. This year has been no exception.

The one consistency I’ve enjoyed from year to year is the changeable skies September brings. The blue-est blues, the most colorful clouds, the most dramatic sky-scapes. Often, September skies are the only natural phenomenon I get to experience fully in this month of effort and hurry.

Sometimes, that is enough.

Of Being

I know this happiness

is provisional:

the looming presences —

great suffering, great fear

withdraw only

into peripheral vision:

but ineluctible this shimmering

of wind in the blue leaves:

this flood of stillness

widening the lake of sky:

this need to dance,

this need to kneel:

this mystery:

—Denise Levertov


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