High Summerby Janet Partlow Here in the end of July, it is now high summer. As I move through this season, I see the tentative spring green leaves of the deciduous trees have now reached full outstretched green bloom, competing for every millimeter of sunlight. I can almost hear photosynthesis and the rush of carbohydrates down the tree trunks to be stored in the roots for winter. The shrubs too are part of the show: the bare spaces in the woods are now stuffed full of shrubby leaves, covering the scars of the winter's ice storm. No longer is there any bare soil: the open ground of winter is now hidden by a profusion of herbaceous plants, each making sure no patch of ground remains open. And the gold-green grasses: all reach skyward, their fluffy bloom heads swaying and shining under the hot summer sun. Everywhere in summer, the grasses are king. The sky has a particular blue luminance in high summer: a shimmering blue that seems to go on forever. The metereologists describe this as an unlimited ceiling. Fat puffs of clouds float across from the north, which is where the best weather of high summer comes from. The water of the sound has a particular quiet midnight blue in summer. Even as the tide rushes in and out, the surface of the bay is quieter, with occasional riffles that change the texture. And the animals of high summer are active. The birds are done with nesting and now are busy stuffing fledgling maws full of wriggling insects. You can see it on your lawn: the constant yammering of the young, the begging behavior, the frantic parents trying to find enough food to shut them up. Out in the prairie meadows, the fritillary butterflies are now emerging from chrysalids hidden deep in the violets. Soon the meadows will be full of large orange butterflies nectaring on the abundant thistle flowers of high summer. And yet, high summer is a season that ebbs and flows. I remember sitting one late July day many years ago on the steps of the old Wash Tub laundromat on Harrison hill. I was with my sister, and we sat outside that afternoon on the steps, looking down the hill towards the bay and Mount Tahoma. As the afternoon wore on, we sat and talked of many things and watched the summer afternoon unfold. The tide floated out, and we smelled the strong rich scent of the estuary. The mountain was impossibly beautiful that day, and most of the winter's snow was melted. As I sat there, the shadows lengthening in the afternoon, I saw the rich translucent blue of the sky deepen in the darker blue of early fall. The heat of the day seemed to seep away, and I felt the first hint of fall chill in the air. For the first time in my life, I understood that summer was a tide, flowing in flowers and grasses and baby birds and blue skies and hot sun. On that day, sitting on the steps, I watched the tide come in, slacken and start to turn. And I knew that high summer was on its way out. Janet Partlow is a staff writer for the Green Pages.
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