Summer

So briskly Summer strode in and wiped Winter’s canvas clean. His hand has been light here and there and traces of purple from the jacaranda and yellow from flowers whose name I don’t know remain. Summer’s aim is to paint the town red with mayflowers, but he will do it in April. Until then, he warms the place, and did an excess of it last week until the other elements frowned: three days of rain quelled his exuberance.

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