On Saturday, I got a late start and even at a little after nine in the morning, when I went out to feed my chicken girls, there was a cool westerly breeze and less humidity than I’ve felt in a while. I’ve seen trees with leaves starting to change, though you have to look hard to notice. Even the pool, where Sherod and I have found respite from the heat and busy-ness at the end of the day, is enough degrees cooler now that our spoiled selves resist its chill. But most of all, there is the cotton, the cotton literally busting out of its bolls, in fields that stretch almost as far as the eye can see.
It is that in between time, both harsh and gentle, when a season is giving way and we are moving into the fullness and loss of a Southern fall.