The August meteors were back, and with it memories of being in the Austrian alps by the farmhouse where we stayed, on my back on some dirt road watching for streaks of light across the night sky, making wishes.

Bit by bit we wound the summer down. The last bag of charcoal, the daisies cut and composted, the garden stakes in the corner ready to be stowed. I bought a generator and called in an exterminator to manage the ant infestation. I learned you need to bait the foragers so they take the poison back to the colony. The fact they live in walls and you need to take out the queens.

And so life plodded on like that. In the neighborhood men replaced rooftops, joggers passed by, young parents with their kids. And we all returned from the delta to the alpha in how to deal with the virus, like we’d gone back in time, wondering would it just keep climbing up the alphabet. And all the foolishness of mankind.

Living in the Pacific Northwest we waited out the forest fires and drought. The smoke particulants kept the temperatures down at least. All the tall firs turned to rust on the edges facing the asphalt. Pink suns.

I made plans to go back to the Hoh rainforest with Brad, to climb up to the glacier, the same trip I wrote about here, 12 years ago. It was so detailed (and unedited) I could recount the exact camps where we stayed, what gear I used. Rereading it was like going back in time.

People died and people were born. The meteors came back on cue. And so did the seasons, like they were on a hidden timer with the same precision as an old clock, tolling in the town square. Reminding us we’re all on a schedule of some kind whether we know it or not. And that time moves in just one way, streaks of light across the sky.

Categories: musings, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, pacific northwest