The heat is gone. The memories drift into that sepia tone that softens every rough spot. The baseball season is winding down. Only one game of that glut of tickets that once sprinkled our calendars with the promise of hot dogs and a chance to raise our voices at the ol' ballgame.
For me it means organizing the scrims and dabblings into something that might resemble a chapter or a story. And wonder which one of these holds the art.
Summer's sweetness waiting to be bottled. And could its music last forever?
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