Late Summer

Before the moths have even appeared to orbit around them, the streetlamps come on, a long row of them glowing uselessly along the ring of garden that circles the city center, where your steps count down the dulling of daylight. At your feet, a bee crawls in small circles like a toy unwinding. Summer specializes in time, slows it down almost to dream. And the noisy day goes so quiet you can hear the bedraggled man who visits each trash receptacle mutter in disbelief:Everything in the world is being thrown away! Summer lingers, but it’s about ending. It’s about how things redden and ripen and burst and come down. It’s when city workers cut down trees, demolishing one limb at a time, spilling the crumbs of twigs and leaves all over the tablecloth of street. Sunglasses! the man softly exclaims while beside him blooms a large gray rose of pigeons huddled around a dropped piece of bread.