The Last Day of Summer

Sept 21 2015

This is the last day of summer

its unofficial end.

So I write as dusk descends;

too early, I futilely protest.

The day I notice

how quickly darkness falls.

The crisp clear air
wood-smoke's sweetly acrid scent.

The day a scattering of leaves

becomes salient;

too few to rake,

but enough to contemplate

just how soon
autumn chores begin.

The last day

frigid, shivering, goose-bump blue
for open-water swims.

After many days

that have been gratefully free

of buzzing biting things.

But nature never rests,

and now, there are mice in the house

traps baited, and set.

The equinox

is its official end,

determined by the alignment

of astronomical objects,

the year divided

into equal parts.

Which is how an accountant would keep track;

summer in the black,

written-off

in his arbitrary ledger.

When actually, the last of summer comes

the day the lake's too cold to bear.

When the book is closed

on open-water swims.

When only the kamikaze dog

is thrilled to launch herself

after sticks and balls.

Or coolly dismissive loons

in their meticulous black-and-white;

effortlessly out-swimming her,

vanishing

in masterful dives.

Her summer will finally end

at freeze-up,

the last open water

tempting her in;

impervious to cold

heedless of consequence.

I envy

this enlightened acceptance of hers.

How she never questions, resents.

Seasons simply come and go

and she blithely dives in,

fully immersed

in the moment.

Forgetting summer

in the heady thrill of snow.

 It's Sept 21, which I think is the official end of summer, beginning of fall. Not that it matters. Because it's also the last day I'll be swimming in the lake this year: summer's unofficial end. Actually, the water was surprisingly warm. And I had a wet suit on. But tonight they're calling for low single digits; which I think will do it for me. (It's a small lake that heats up quickly. Unfortunately, it cools off just as fast.) So my swim had the ceremonial feel of the last of the season. Although there is no mistaking the beginning of fall: the air and light have changed, and the steady descent into darkness and cold feels inexorable.

This is how the poem started. I have no idea how it then turned into another dog poem. I'm happy it did, though. Because of all the attributes of dogs I envy and admire, this is a big one: that they don't over-think, that they inhabit the present. Skookum doesn't lament summer, anticipate fall, worry about winter. She takes everything in stride, fully immersed in the moment. (Which is why I very consciously use thrilled, and then -- in a kind of call-back -- repeat it as thrill: she is equally thrilled diving into the lake as she is diving into a pile of snow!)

I should mention that she never goes after loons in real life. Which is a bit disappointing in a Lab, whom I would have thought well-attuned to waterfowl. Or maybe she is simply gracious in defeat, recognizing the loon's unattainability, her own limitations. Or perhaps she is full of grace: a lover; not a hunter, predator, and killer. Yes, that's my preferred explanation: that she respects other living things; that she is content to share her lake. (Or, most likely of all, the movement and speed of sticks and balls make them irresistible for an animal bred for pursuit, built for the chase!) This is one of my favourite parts of the poem, so it was easy to grant myself a little poetic license here. I quite like cooly dismissive loons/ in their meticulous black-and-white ...vanishing/ in masterful dives. They really do vanish; seamlessly slipping-in, then disappearing for so long and making such distance underwater you might never see them come up. And their black and white plumage has this meticulous precision about it, always perfectly coiffed. And they are so confident on the water, evincing this dismissive hauteur: which contrasts almost comically with the goofy exuberance of a dog.