It sounds like August. The cicadas wild howl. The scurrying of dry leaves across the driveway. The firm thud as the nearly ripe apple that the squirrel has claimed for its own hits the ground.
It looks like August. The evening light gives me the side eye. "Have you written your syllabus yet?"
How much more August can I wring from these days? Before September drops into my lap with a thump?
