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Waiting for Fall

Dear Summer,

I'm over you. I'm over shorts and tank tops and sandals and sweating. I'm over 90 degree days and sweltering in the sun. I'm done with the smell of hot, rotting sewage wafting up from the corner of Broad and Oxford. You were lovely in June, predictably hellish in July, and tedious by August. I loved you, nonetheless: your long days and lightning bugs and green leaves and bright mornings. But that was back home, in the cool lap of creek water, in the intentional pouring-sweat of hikes and ultimate frisbee and chasing eight-year-olds around the playground. I loved you in those quiet, early mornings with the mist rising off the mountains, the swoop and twitter of purple martins waking. I loved your heat in the spray of freezing hose water, in the bursting of water balloons and the slipping down of water slides. You were beautiful that first weekend in June, the early summer sun dipping cotton-candy below the bay. You were lovely as we drove in the dark down de…

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