Haze

The grass was dead and the trees bowed under the weight of nearly ripe fruit until the leaves almost grazed the ground and even little Molly could pick pears and apples without needing to be picked up. Late August was heavy on the world. The whole yard between the fences and the neighbor yards beyond it lay languidly in death and new life as hazy heat settled over everything. The dirty plastic swing rocked itself and its frayed rubber covered chains in the gentle breeze. The day was bright, but you could only find the sun if you were looking for it. A gray-white veil cloaked the sky, and even the intense rays of the sun could only pierce it enough to make a small discolored speck in the army of clouds—almost as if the sky had something bright stuck in its teeth. It should have been windy. The air seemed to be considering it, in an uncommitted sort of way. And perhaps afterwards there would be rain. And maybe water could wash away the beautiful monotony of dust and gray.

I sat there, on one of the two old swings, plastic and green with chains decked with rubber covers that had long since lost the will to live, and thought about words. There wasn’t much else to do. I could always go climb the 30 stairs to my room and make my bed as the swamp coolers battled the heat that came as a result of having a bedroom in the attic. But given the options, I’d rather ponder words. Slipping off the swing, the chains sighing in relief, I migrated to the front porch, sat in a dusty wooden chair, and surveyed the new surroundings. The grass was still dead but the trees were maple, and unencumbered by extra weight. They stood tall and made music with their many leaves in the breeze, symphonies of rustlings, diverse and peaceful, occasionally disturbed by a group of art hating squirrels. By even the mischievous little philistines couldn’t keep the trees from rejoicing in their calm and patient way. Perhaps they knew they wouldn’t have their leaves for much longer, and when they grew more, they would never be the same ones. So many leaves and so little time. Might as well spend it all dancing.

On a day like this one, you have to look to see these dances. Most people never see them. Or they don’t see them as dances because these things don’t dance like we do. Maybe the squirrels do, a little bit. But on a day like this, look a bit closer, and see the dance in things too quiet to hear in the normal tumult. We ignore rejoicing because so much of it is happening and we don’t believe it possible to be that happy and that joyful and that grateful all the time. The trees dance. But they dance differently. They make partners of the wind and rain and they dance by making every little commonplace thing beautiful. My pear tree dances as it overcommits to giving me more fruit than it can hold. My apple tree dances as it teases me with its fat tangy apples that it gives to moth worms. The plum sapling dances as it stretches its arms as far as it can, decking them with proud and dusty purple jewels. The maple trees dance in their slow and precious steps, treasuring the leaves of that year. And soon they will all sleep as another dance begins. And eventually, they will wake up and I will watch their dance again.