The last night before school started and Shel turned to me as I was putting him in bed and uttered these words, "The carcass of summer has been incinerated."
But where, I asked him, did you pick up this language?
He looked at me incredulously and said, "The Coneheads".
A little overdramatic, but accurate.
Why is it as soon as the page turns from August to September you can feel the difference? One day it's summer and the next day it's September. Almost fall.
Pictures of the night sky taken on the way back from Ottawa to Montreal.
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1 comment:
You're a poet, Shelby. The carcass of our summer is still twitching in the bottom of the incinerator, and smells real bad.
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