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l’ete.

I can hear July panting and shuffling, like a long-tongued and lush-coated Golden Retriever, at the door. Really? Already?

Summer has appeared strangely here, in fits and starts and stutters. Between chill and fogged-in days we’ll have a brave spurt of frightful heat, or entire hours of noonlike sun, but these seasonal parodies never seem to last. The next day, as before, there will be no sky.

I’ve loved this sheltered summer. I have not had to put away my sweaters, nor had to offer up my thin pale legs to be worried raw by the sun. Instead I’ve gotten to wander, raincoated and slow, through a shaded city, feeling the peculiar and deeply visceral satisfaction that comes from having the weather match one’s basic mood.

But now June is nearly gone, and I am left guilty with surprise, and hoping, guiltily, that the season will continue to be shy.