Late summer has taken hold here, slipping sneakily in as the days roll unstoppably past. Daytime skies change with erratic fluidity between sunlight and overcast, often overlain by the haze of summertime humidity, softening the air, softening the vistas of green, green hills and mountains. Lots of rain, punctuated by misty mornings and the relief of sunshine.
The critters in the grass sing louder and louder, making late summer music 24 hours a day (a kind of soundtrack that promotes fine sleep). More and more trees show autumn colors. Rolls of mown hay appear in farmers' fields.
Three days ago the robins disappeared, heading south right on schedule. The hummingbirds, usually out of here in sync with the robins, continue hanging about, but I expect they'll bolt at any time. In general, the noise of songbirds has gone quiet, even the singing of the thrush in the woods across the road, a near constant sound this summer -- an indication that the stampede out of here in advance of autumn temperatures is well underway. And birds migrating south from areas further north have begun passing through, some in flocks, others showing up singly or in pairs, resting briefly then moving on.
In the spring, as the day of my return to this side of the Atlantic approaches and I find myself feeling good and rooted in my Madrid existence, I resist coming back. I complain. I bitch and fuss. But once I'm back and have made the adjustment (often a heavier process than expected), I find myself slipping into a state of pleasure that's hard to describe, just from being back in this part of the world at this time of the year. I drift through my days (being productive or not), I do errands, I swap email and, less frequently, phone calls with friends. I push the lawn mower across oceans of grass, I stick flowers in the Earth or in pots, I pop a young tree or two into the ground. I eat, I write, I read, sometimes I crank up the stereo, occasionally the T&V goes on. Then I glance at the calendar to find that days/weeks at a time have disappeared in no time flat.
I arrived back here 60+ days ago. And the calendar entries continue to push and shove each other out of the way as they hurry make their way through, briefly here, then gone. Temporary, transient, always in motion.
There's a sweetness to that, a poignancy that could easily be experienced as bittersweet. If I'm in the moment, though, what permeates the passing hours is the sweetness, minus the bitter.
But I blather.
On to the day.
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 2:51 PM [+]
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