August is

I don't know what August is in your neck of the woods, but here, August is a lazy canoe on a slow, winding river; a turtle sunning on a log; a postcard; the scent of pine at 6 a.m.; a dusty road; damp beach towels doing a line dance; sand; red tomatoes; deer flies; wildflowers; a slow, quiet song; a 10-cent, 70-page notebook, college-ruled; waist-high grass; the county fair; an old dog rolling on his back in tall dry weeds; the color blue; being immobile in a lawn chair, thinking about the color blue; the smell of sand and sun and pine at 3 p.m.; lake swimming; smooth black stones picked up along the lake shore; grasshoppers; crickets; warm, hazy afternoons; cool evenings; idleness; a subtle rustle of wind and leaves at 4 p.m.; a daydream; a love letter postmarked at a one-room post office; a gentle nudge; the Milky Way; a shooting star caught in the corner of your eye; the scent of pine on a watery breeze along about 10 p.m.; wild blueberries; blue sky; a blue-green lake; cool-headed breezes caressing warm bellies; a birthday; the last chance to procrastinate; a drop in blood pressure; lotus flowers; shortening days; lingering nights.