Summer is coming. The light says it with how things are flattened, the air made bulbous with its weight and presence. In winter the colors are spectacular and thin, but in summer they are painterly, luxurious.
Look up and you can see this. In winter the contrail would be thin, white and brittle as spider silk. Now there is blue in it and it droops, all from summer.
As a kid you had views like these: sitting on steps, trapped waiting for a ride or food or to be told what to do next, powerlessness to act, but with all the time in the world. Nothing on the TV and all the books read, you looked up and thought about the exciting powers adults had. They could fly. At least you could watch, and wonder.
Now knowing adults aren’t all-powerful, looking into summer satisfies as it never has before.