William Faulkner wrote a southern gothic novel The Light in August that I haven’t read. The title is a reference to a house on fire, but for me the Light in August is a liminal phenomenon.
With the light now angled two months past the equinox and casting lanky shadows, the days remain hot.
A gap opens in the habits of light and temperature. I sense a difference, the sun steering toward autumn and the heat still clinging, days shorter and the vibrant green beginning to tire and turn. And on the seasons pass.
