A month ago I demanded summer, wanted the fresh expulsion of lawn mowers and people in parks. People talk on subways and say hello on sidewalks and dance on subway platforms when the train takes so long. The good things about the quadruple seasons: there's always room to change, always room to recede and progress. The months in the Midwest are longer, the politics structured, breakable, but home. I miss being cupped by the rolling hills and open pleasure of the east, the easy going nature of anger: forgivable. But I like the yellow grains of the prairie, the flat lands that express outward space. There's too much room to grow, but so much room to maintain open. I am distracted by the city, by an inability to close up shop. Socialization that bridges networks like high tension wires that don't cause headaches, or sever the ones that do.
It is May, near June rolling into July. I plaster a stamp on the month that says middle, listen to the yellow finches that hide in the trees when I look for them. It it summer, it is four weeks away. It is the best time to fly east, to camp out with family in backyards missed since Christmas, or the fourth of July.
I cry for the calm rest of the Atlantic, the breaking waves against the Norther Maine bays. The carriage of routes and rocks and conifers and the highways you know without a compass, the directions you close your eyes to find. Travel blindfold through the tops of mountain ridges, hawks circle the clouds around you.
When you look out you see no houses, just trees like cushions ready to catch you if you fall.