Listening to Dylan’s Forever Young and sliding my hand into what must certainly be the last of many bags of summer’s cherries. Late August cherries are not as sweet as June cherries, and the flesh is thicker and pulpy, less juicy.

Pondering, as I do every summer after the meteors come flying Perseus, did Faulkner write about the lengthening shadows of August, or was there more to it. For me, that was always enough.

August and the reckoning that the best days are again in the rearview mirror.