Summer Is Over

Summer fled this island like a thief in the night. Yesterday was hot and still, the sea flat, the water translucent turquoise in the harbor, deep marine blue from the harbor’s mouth to the horizon. The evening was balmy with a soft breeze. Palm fronds rustled. Cicadas buzzed.

At first light today the sea was a vast slag heap of anthracite, rolling and restless. The dawn sky was low and moody, clouds like prizefighter’s fists, clenched and bruised from horizon to horizon. Wind came in strong from the south, cold and insistent, raising dust and gravelly dirt, the grit forcing its way through curtains and under doors and sweeping sling chairs from the balcony.

At midmorning the clouds released torrents, a sudden heavy deluge collapsing umbrellas and sweeping the unwary from their feet, sewers and gutters overflowing, streets flooding and sidewalks transformed to riverbeds in seconds. Then the Niagara stopped as if a tap had been turned off. The wind persisted, piercing and chill. The clouds cleared but the sky revealed was gray and low and resembled the interior of alcoholic depression.

Ten minutes later the wind blew the sky blue again. ML and I took off shoes and sox and leaped over puddles and waded through the riverine streets, laughing like kids.