Summer has begun to fade and I want to stop the calendar right here, pause the passage of time for some period of time that will allow me to wallow in the sharp angle of light, absorb the clearness of the air, drink in and gnaw on the deliciousness of the moment. The turn of the season, summer to autumn, is right now, this minute — and this minute is not long. In the morning I linger, stand on the deck to stare at the sycamore tree and its leaves, already the green-gold of an old penny; to stare at the sky, empty of everything except birds lifting themselves from their nighttime roosts.