Perfect.

        I like to quantify things and have quantified perfect weather:  80ºF/ 26.6ºC, plus or minus a degree or two; clear sky; low humidity; light wind.

        That’s what we have, have had for several days, are predicted to have for a few more.  Who knew that Chicago is paradise?

        A martini half drunk.   A rising crescendo of cicadas calling to one another in sexual frenzy.  Cicadas don’t have time for subtlety.  The sun below the buildings across the street.

        I walk to the Juliette.  Yellow and purple flowers flourish.  But the planter does not have the charm it did when doves nested there.

        Trees.  Limbs.  Silhouetted leaves.  Swaying in wind.  They are like ripples on water.   Almost.  In two weeks I will be on THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and they will be water.

        An airliner crosses the sunset sky with a cargo of hopes,  worries,  maybe dreams.

        In November when I return here, leaves, and cicadas, and doves, will be gone.  

        The airliner is already gone.

        And the trees will be bare.