I keep remembering the golden light of sunset on the grassy pastures at the farm, my shoulders warm with a light sun burn and sweat. I was completely covered in dirt, the heavy humid air, the hoot of an owl through my open window. I think of throwing my windows open each night to bring the cooler air in while I slept, of even one sheet being too much cover, of needing fans and trying to keep the bugs out. I remember the lazy upward motion of the fireflies. How long is it now? It can't be far.

It was a good summer, full of hard work and mud and flowers and cuts and cows and peppers and lettuce. I'm really starting to miss it.