August
Sunday, and it's raining in Alaska.
Seven days, I haven't seen the sun...
--the Wrangel Mountain Song
John Denver
Summer is sliding away. August is already here, and the days are like a handful of pebbles, dropping one by one from my grasp.
An old tropical storm is spinning in the Aleutians--a wave of moisture came through early this morning, breaking the string of beautiful, hot days. I woke up in the darkness and listening to rain pouring down. Rain--a sound that years of Alaskan living has made synonymous with summer for me.
The heat has translated into humidity--a muggy morning with the temperature and dewpoint both at 54 degrees, tattered shreds of stratus lying along the bluff, fed by the drizzle.
The indirect light makes the fireweed glow with an unnaturally intense color. Slowly, the florets climb the tall spikes as each bud opens--folklore maintains that when they have bloomed to the top, first frost is only two weeks away. We are on the countdown now, with the floral fuses burning.
Seven days, I haven't seen the sun...
--the Wrangel Mountain Song
John Denver
Summer is sliding away. August is already here, and the days are like a handful of pebbles, dropping one by one from my grasp.
An old tropical storm is spinning in the Aleutians--a wave of moisture came through early this morning, breaking the string of beautiful, hot days. I woke up in the darkness and listening to rain pouring down. Rain--a sound that years of Alaskan living has made synonymous with summer for me.
The heat has translated into humidity--a muggy morning with the temperature and dewpoint both at 54 degrees, tattered shreds of stratus lying along the bluff, fed by the drizzle.
The indirect light makes the fireweed glow with an unnaturally intense color. Slowly, the florets climb the tall spikes as each bud opens--folklore maintains that when they have bloomed to the top, first frost is only two weeks away. We are on the countdown now, with the floral fuses burning.
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