Karry Temple | Summer
A summer night can feel like black velvet — the air as close and warm as the living land’s breath. You can feel it on your skin. Gentle waves stir the trees, float rumors that the playful god Pan is afoot. Magic distills in the sweet-scented summer nights of memory — fireflies, hide-and-seek, ghosts in the graveyard. Here’s another.
It is August a year ago. My wife and I have retreated to a little town in southern Indiana — a spry country village given over to gift shops and antique stores, handmade furniture and good things to eat. We’ve done that all day and have found the third-floor balcony of our B&B, overlooking the back alleys and parking lots a block off Main Street.
We sit in rocking chairs. We look out over rain-puddled rooftops and into windows glowing amber in the dark. The afternoon downpours have traveled into the forested hills along the southern horizon; lightning flashes — mute and distant. There are stars now and a breeze and the papery scuffling of voices as late diners head to their cars or duck into darkened doorways. We bathe in our reveries, no words between us.