Line of Demarcation

Summer's ready to leave the party. She's said everything she wants to say, and she's tired of listening to everyone else's stories. Sitting at a little bistro table, she's been cool and distant all season, lovely to look at, just lovely, lovely, like spring. But this coolness didn't suit her age after a while. She never gave off any real warmth. The garden stood still, just watching her.

There's a cool wind that blew in yesterday, right in front of a thunderstorm. Now you can tell summer's preparing to leave. She's clinking the ice in the bottom of her glass, she's looking around to see who might be watching her go. She's dropping solitary yellow leaves from the cherry tree, hints of her intentions. Summer's more aloof, not letting much sun through today, perhaps thinking that no one noticed she was even at the party.

The air couldn't be stiller. Summer's holding her breath, mulling over what sort of exit to make; whether to stand up at once and stride out leaving a frosty room behind her, or to go slowly, laying a hand on a bare shoulder here and there, touching lightly on her way to the door.

The light is staying low today, spread out under bushes, a perpetual morning light from a tired summer. She's lovely and cool but I feel her warming, just a little blush. I think she's spotted Autumn, radiant and young, at the door talking to the maître d', checking her watch, waiting for summer to clear her table. I think summer realizes that whatever exit she chooses, it is time to go now.