Yes, it is a season of fists and fellow food fulness, the gifts of the entertaining sun. My mind turns out into the living space around me, and back in upon itself. Like a man looking through the chambers of a nautilus only to find himself amongst the orbitals of an onion, I am seeing too many things and not enough.
Augusts are ever so. I have sealed and unsealed records, blog posts, golden apples and silver ones — and they were all date-stamped in Augusts past. For August is the season of breaking up the plenitude of the land and distributing it in odd ways to all the people. It is harvest, and hear I am sitting bemused in the storehouse again.