Clover in the Grass

There were days when lying in the grass and counting clover leaves were all we had to do in the summer. The sweet smell of the clover blossoms drew the bees, but their buzzing was a reassuring sign of the season, not a warning, and certainly not a danger. The grass was soft, and just the slightest bit wet with the last of the morning dew. The sun traveled overhead – the shadow of the house retracted – and by high noon it was hazy and hot. It was summer, and it was glorious, and it was never-ending.

Every once in a while I’ll return to that moment, that feeling. A carefree childhood, bereft of adult worries – the wonder of a day, of a moment, stretched out in the endless path of the sun – the promise of a four-leaf clover, hidden somewhere, maybe many somewheres, in the expanse of a lawn.

It’s too soon for the cry of the cicadas – though this is the heat in which they like to sing. In the forest, in the distance, they will sound their buzzing – starting slowly, then growing into a shrill siren call. I will remember the summers gone by, in the midst of the summer at hand.

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