Tonight promises a lull in the rhythm of summer. Lows in the fifties, dry air stretching south, and the seasonal traffic easing on the highways and lakes. Even what remains of the garden is sighing, satisfied with a bountiful run. A lovely stillness is settling in.

Late summer seems to move slowly along, in no hurry to leave. Is it still true that in much of France, Italy, Germany, and Spain, many citizens flee the continent every August to watch the last of summer simmer by at the seaside? What that must do for mind and spirit!

Perhaps they share the preference for meteorological season changes. Few of us in the southeastern United States would agree that summer does not begin until the third week of June; and many of us are eager to embrace autumn’s arrival September 1, no matter what the day’s high temp might reach. Spring is our only concession to astronomical season dates in these mountains.

Summer’s end in our area means the last hay bales are going in above the barn stalls, farmers’ markets are colorful spectacles of inspiration for dinners on the porch, and dogwood leaves ever so faintly begin to blush bronze—hinting of the new season to come. Pile a few pillows in the porch swing and enjoy a surprisingly beautiful evening or two this weekend.